Coming Home
by Liv Wilder
Summary: S6 opening fic. Mild spoilers. "Javi, I can't come back. I have my work here and…" she sighs, lowering her voice. "We agreed on a break. I just—It's too soon," she tells him, embarrassed to admit what a screw-up she's made of everything; the fairytale romance so many people were gambling their happy ending on turned to ordinary shit by her hand.'
1. Chapter 1 - Fade To Black

_A/N: This is the insulin shot to counteract 'Candy's' sugar overload, if you read that one. Hang on people, the S6 train is leaving the station… ;)_

* * *

_"The furthest star in the sky,  
Well that's the one that passed me by.  
I tried to wish upon that star,  
It didn't get me very far.  
It fell on empty ears,  
It fell on empty hearts.  
And my dreams, they fell apart."_

_"The lights went out across the world  
And your house of cards came tumbling down  
Cause nothing stays and noting sticks  
When you're rolling with the lunatics.  
But my star in the darkest sky  
Twinkles and watches while the other stars die  
Upon your empty ears and empty hearts."_

_**-Amy Macdonald**, 'The Furthest Star'_

* * *

_**Chapter 1: Fade To Black**_

"Javi, I can't come back. I have my work here and…" she sighs, lowering her voice. "We agreed on a break. I just—It's too soon," she tells him, embarrassed to admit what a screw-up she's made of everything; the fairytale romance so many people were gambling their happy ending on turned to ordinary shit by her hand.

She fell in love, she got the guy, he even proposed, put it all out there – whither thou goest - the whole nine yards. And she turned him down, asked for a break, packed up and left a couple of weeks later with her heart in her throat and his ring in her pocket.

"Kate, you're not listening to me."

"Javi, please," she sighs again, pushing a hand through her hair in frustration, not even pausing to ask why he needs her anyway. "Look, I have to go," she lies, using impatience and her job as a screen for regret and the truth – that she'd loved to give in, give up, come home.

But she's never given up on anything in her life before. Even when she chose Castle, she never really gave up. Except maybe now she's given up on the one thing she should have cherished more than anything, and she's still too stubborn to admit it.

* * *

"Tyson is back," he says stonily, pausing for the words to sink in, for the obligatory silence to fall on the line to Washington. "And he has Castle."

Her world shrinks to the size of a pinprick, everything else fading to black.

"He—? When? How long?" she stammers out, looking around the ops room for her colleagues, her hand in her hair again, fingers raking desperately this time.

Her hair is cut shorter, lying just on her shoulders. A practical change she told herself, when in truth every time she looked at herself in the mirror, saw those curls, the glossy length, she just saw Castle, saw him as clear as if her hair were a mirror – his lips on her skull, a hank of curls wrapped tightly around his fist as he made love to her, or that tender way he had of tucking a strand behind her ear, looking into her eyes and telling her '_Always_'. She needed an escape from those memories before they drowned her, drowned her in every precious inch of love that she has lost.

"A couple of days. Maybe three at most," Esposito admits, sounding slightly embarrassed. "Martha was out of town. Alexis got a text cancelling dinner two nights ago. But we think it came from him."

"From whom? 3XK?"

"Yes."

"But, Javi, he's dead," she almost laughs, since it's ridiculous. It is ridiculous, isn't it? "Castle shot him. Multiple times. I was there. He can't be…"

Her mouth goes dry and she grips the edge of the desk. She remembers the expression on Castle's face when he looked over the precipice of that bridge, stared into the dark, swirling water, so sure…_so certain_ that Jerry Tyson would be back. She had scoffed, gotten angry and walked away.

* * *

"We have a clear shot of him leaving the parking garage on Crosby Street. He was driving Castle's silver Merc. Another one of him entering the Holland Tunnel. Kate, it's him. I'm so sorry," he tells her, quietly.

"You're _sorry_?" she yells, panic rising like bile in her throat.

Several people look up, people she mostly doesn't know, heads rising to stare over their cubicles: regimented, impersonal spaces, barely a pot plant or a family photograph to differentiate one from the other.

Esposito rides out her anger, knows it mostly comes from shock and maybe even guilt. Castle's been coming in and out of the Precinct now and again, bringing coffee and donuts, Yankees tickets, even assisting with cases when Gates will let him. He mooches around the break room making Espressos, watching interviews through the glass, as if he can't bear to let go completely, as if he'll lose her for good if he stops showing up. Marching on the spot, keeping time like their love is on life support. Esposito watched him stare blindly at Kate's desk the first few times he came to visit, a haunted look in his eyes, until it wasn't her desk anymore and then he didn't know where to look.

"Who spoke to him last?" she asks, too worked up to even apologize, though her sane self knows this isn't Javi's fault. In fact, if it's anyone's fault it's probably hers.

"Rachel. She called him two days ago. He was helping with—"

"_Rachel?_ Who is Rachel?" snaps Kate, and he hears the suspicion and hurt leaching out of her voice, panic too, and for a whole other reason.

"Rachel McCord. Your…your replacement. She and Castle were—"

"Were _what_?" whispers Kate, all out of breath, winded, as if she's just been punched in the gut.

She bites her lip and winces when she hears herself, hears the jealousy in her voice; jealousy she probably has no right to since she is the one who walked away; who walked away from _Always_.

"They were working on a case. We'd hit a roadblock. Guy found dead inside one of those moveable library storage stacks. The killer left a bunch of clues. Notes he mailed to the victim's wife. Coded notes and Gates thought—"

"_Coded?_" asks Kate, still hearing '_she and Castle_' reverberate round and round in her head, fighting to drown out the refrain.

"Dewey-whatsit thing," he mutters, distractedly, as Kate picks up the sound of a phone ringing in the background and someone who could be Ryan talking to Esposito.

"Dewey decimal system?" asks Kate more loudly, demanding his attention.

"Yeah, that's it. Castle said you'd know," he blurts, almost smiling at how well the guy knows her, still convinced these two are meant to be, but trying not to interfere for all he'd love to.

"It's him, isn't it?" she says then, the pieces clicking into place.

"Yeah, I'm afraid the security cam footage proves it beyond a doubt, Beckett. Guy didn't even wear a disguise. No ball cap, no sunglasses, nothin'."

"No. No, not the footage," she cuts in, shaking her head and dragging a notepad towards her. "The case Castle was working with this…this…"

"_Rachel?_" supplies Esposito, wondering if she's actually forgotten the female detective's name already or just can't bear to say it.

"Yeah. Coded notes? The library classification system? That's right up his alley and he _knows_ it would be right up Castle's too. _Dammit!_" she exclaims, thumping her hand down on the desk, raising more stares from the peanut gallery, the ops room seeing more action and more passion in the space of a five minute phone call than it has in weeks.

"What? You think he set us up? Lured Castle with this case?"

"Makes sense. What was he working on when he went missing?"

"Eh…Rachel?" Kate hears Esposito hiss, his hand only partially covering the mouthpiece.

She hears a young, female voice, guesses Brooklyn, maybe Queens. Her brain is trying to supply her with an accompanying picture, but she battles against it, since petite, busty blond seems to be her brain's default setting whenever she thinks of Castle and other women, and she quite honestly couldn't bear it if that were the case.

* * *

"Castle called to say he'd cracked it. He'd cracked the code. He arranged to meet Rachel at the New York Public Library. Kate, he never showed up."

Kate has a vision of her partner sitting at a long wooden table amongst dusty bookshelves, light streaming in behind him, his face hidden by a navy ball cap, on the run from the police all because of Jerry Tyson, and then she feels his arms around her, tightening; feeling like home. _'The first time that I cuffed you…'_

"What if Tyson bugged the loft again?" she says, trying to ignore the swell of emotion.

"What if the sweep missed a bug from the first time? What if he's been listening in all along?" suggests Esposito.

Kate does not want to even consider that prospect, so she forces it out of her mind.

"Talk to building management and call Eduardo. Ask him about any maintenance they've had done lately. Any unfamiliar contractors, workmen, delivery guys, strangers, visitors who've been in and out of the building. Eh...there's a camera in the lobby, Javi. Covers the front door. Pull the footage for the last week. And get CSU over there. We need to know if the locks were forced or tampered with. Look for any signs of a struggle, collect prints and DNA. We need to find out if he was taken by force. And Espo, if this really is Tyson, look for clues. Expect them. This guy likes to taunt us. We know that already. Likes to show off how clever he is, that he's one step ahead. You hear me?" she asks the silence on the line.

"Beckett," he says, quietly, gently, to halt her flow.

"Yes?"

"We're already on it."

"Right," she says, a little sheepishly, catching her breath, the heel of her hand inexplicably pressed to the scar between her breasts; a scar she hasn't thought of in so long. "Teaching grandma to suck eggs," she concedes, ducking her head in embarrassment.

"It's okay. I know how you feel. We're all worried. That's why I called you. Thought you'd want to know."

"Thanks. I appreciate it."

And though she genuinely does appreciate the call, it only serves to highlight how estranged she's become from these people that CSU would hear about her partner's…_former_ partner's disappearance before she does.

"That and…if it is kidnapping then it's Federal, right. And given he's a serial…thought you might be able to grease some wheels for us, speed up the process, get us the best."

"Email me everything you've got," she replies instantly, glad of the direct request, since it's not exactly her area. "I'll talk to my boss, pull a team. Listen, I'll call you back," she promises, reenergized by being needed, being included, asked for her help.

Esposito thanks her and prepares to hang up.

"_Espo?_" she calls into the phone, not wanting to sever the friendly connection just yet, not ready to return to ersatz, sanitized, Government civility, civility than verges on froideur.

"Yes?"

"You have to find him," she forces out, pressing her fingers to her lips to hold the rest back.

"We'll do our best. You know we will, chica," he promises, wishing he could give her more.

* * *

Ten minutes later Esposito's phone rings.

"Detective Esposito?" he replies brusquely, the receiver tucked into his shoulder as he continues to type up an email.

"Javi, it's me. I'm coming home," says Kate, short and sweet, and then she hangs up.

* * *

_A/N: Appreciate your thoughts on this one. Liv_


	2. Chapter 2 - Those First Few Steps

_A/N: Well, you seem to like the premise of this story, so on we go..._

* * *

_"Come upstairs and I'll show you where all my_  
_Where my demons hide from you_  
_Just look at who I have become I am so ashamed_  
_You were the one that made me feel the way I do"_

_"You broke me and taught me_  
_To truly hate myself_  
_Unfold me and teach me how to be_  
_Like somebody else"_

_"And I felt strong enough_  
_I was discovered by the love_  
_I had been waiting for so long..."_

_**- Lianne La Havas**, 'Lost & Found'_

* * *

_**Chapter 2: Those First Few Steps**_

Kate returns to her sterile condo: a featureless, corporate rental in Market Square, just off Pennsylvania Avenue and a short walk from her office. The apartment is warm, the air a little stagnant from being closed up for long days on end while she works. Only works.

She throws open the windows, lets the traffic noise from outside filter in while she packs a bag with professional focus, using the very skills the government hired her for – her clinical ability to compartmentalize, to separate emotion from the task in hand, to strain everything else out; just as she did when Tyson resurfaced the last time to target them, just as she did when Alexis went missing.

She takes only the essentials – her washbag, make-up, underwear, jeans, a stack of tee-shirts, a sweater and a navy, lightweight crepe blazer. Leaves her business suits and professional dress shirts hanging in the closet still wrapped in plastic. Grabs keys, passport, her laptop, a framed photo of her dad and one of herself and Castle that sits on the otherwise bare night stand. The last thing she lifts before heading out of the door is a soft grey scarf decorated with elephants that Castle gave her the last time she saw him before she left. She tucks it into her carry-on, locks the door behind her, never pausing to look back.

She calls the airline from the cab on the way out to the airport, books herself on a United flight to Newark that leaves just after six, getting in just before seven-thirty. This close to departure and given the hour, the price is punishing. But she reads out her credit card number without hesitation, unwilling to wait an hour and forty minutes for the next flight into Newark, keen to get back to the city as fast as she can.

* * *

Ronald Regan Washington National Airport is just three miles south of downtown D.C. in Arlington County, Virginia. She's standing in front of the automatic check-in machine with her locator number illuminated on her cell phone screen just twenty minutes later. She hands over her bag at the bag-drop and proceeds through security to the gate.

The departure area is busy, but she manages to find a space by the window. She deposits her leather jacket and carry-on on a sloping leather chair, and sinks into its conjoined twin next door, sliding all the way to the back of the chair, her body feeling tired already, just forty minutes left until the flight. She hooks her cell up to the free airport wifi, checks her email, and then she calls Lanie.

"Tonight. Javi spoke to you? _Me?_ I'm…yeah, fine, I guess. No, thanks. I can get a cab. Be there sometime after eight-thirty, if that's okay? Oh, and Lanie? Thank you," she says sincerely, relieved her friend is prepared to offer her a place to stay since her own apartment is sublet right now and she really doesn't want to be alone.

She visits the bathroom and the flight is called, pulls her leather jacket on over her white tee-shirt, anticipating the fierce air-conditioning on the airplane, throws her bag over her shoulder and strides to the gate to join the slow, jogging line towards the jetway.

She scuffs the toe of her ballet flat on the grey tile, takes one step forward, then another.

_Beep._ "Thank you, have a great flight." _Beep._ "Thank you, have a safe flight." _Beep._ "Miss Beckett, you have a safe flight."

And she's almost there, headed home.

* * *

She finds her seat – a window in row twenty-six – since beggars can't be choosers, and is quickly penned in by two large guys in wrinkled suits who seem to work together. She nods, but makes it clear from the off that she will not engage them. She has a copy of the New York Times and a paperback, both hurriedly purchased at Hudson News inside the terminal, and she cradles them on her lap, content to stare blindly out of the window for now.

Pushback comes later than she hopes, and she feels antsy from waiting, trapped in her seat. But at least her two companions are asleep, one canted towards the other, thankfully away from her. She watches the tug drive away across the tarmac after being unhooked from the front of the airplane, feels as if she is being untethered too, let free to float back to her old life, if only for a short while. Then United 4103 noses off the taxiway and onto the head of the main runway. The engines rev up, the aircraft brakes release finally thundering down the runway at 180 miles an hour, rotate and then liftoff, and the silver bird takes flight.

They're halfway to cruise, the clouds a patchwork quilt below them, before she crashes, the weight of everything finally bearing down on her now that the necessary has been done. She got herself here - on board - she's heading home, home to find him if it's the last thing she ever does.

And that's when the tears come.

* * *

She unfurls the newspaper, shakes open the pages, turns away towards the window to screen her face as they silently roll down her cheeks. Is this what happens when you turn your back on the right path – you get punished? Or would this have happened to Castle regardless, Tyson so focused on crushing him, ruining their lives for his own perverted pleasure come what may?

She lets the cold flow of air from the plastic nozzle above her seat dry her tears, dabs the last few with the elephant scarf and then blows out a few shaky, settling breaths. She hears the seatbelt sign ping off and people begin to clamber out of their own rows to head to the bathrooms, the stewardesses clattering in the aft galley as they prepare to deliver the drinks service.

She takes a black coffee, hugs the paper cup to her chest, watching as an aircraft speeds by a thousand feet below them, sunlight briefly glinting off the fuselage, more lives in transition, headed God knows where.

She tries to settle her mind back down, think clearly, strategically, to work on next steps. She pulls the file she's started out of her bag: several pages of notes, an email from Esposito outlining the timeline of events as they know them so far, an interim report from TARU on the CCTV, the Merc's tracking system and Castle's laptop, and another preliminary report from CSU.

She opens the plain manila folder to begin working, lifts out her yellow legal pad, and a small, crisp envelope falls out with it. The handwriting on the back has her heart tripping up, a slight arrhythmia as two beats tumble over one another.

The letter is from Castle, one she has yet to reply to…or even open. She trails her fingertips over the familiar strokes, the upslants and downslants of his handwriting, feels where the pen has indented the thick paper, reminds herself that _he_ touched this page, that he wrote this to _her_, _for _her. And she wonders where he is right now, if he's safe, injured, if he knows they're even looking for him.

The letter arrived only ten days ago. So maybe all is not lost. She breaks the seal on the envelope's flap with her finger, sliding it along the vee, watching the gum crackle and peel apart, then withdraws the single sheet of notepaper and begins to read with her hand pressed to her chest.

* * *

_Dear Kate,_

_I know we said no contact for a while. Well, you did. But since when have I been any good at following rules?_

_Anyway, I just wanted you to know that I'm here and I'm waiting, as I promised I would. I meant what I said before you left - you mean so much to me, and when you find something as special as this, the 'where' of life shouldn't matter. The 'who' is the only thing, and for me that who will always be you._

_I'll understand if I don't hear from you. I just needed you to know that you are in my thoughts constantly. I hope you're safe and happy and feel fulfilled._

_I remain yours, Always._

_Rick x _

* * *

She presses the back of her hand to her mouth and sucks in a great gulp of air, looking out of the window again, blinking rapidly and swallowing hard, thoughts of a different plane ride and yet another letter resurfacing to taunt her.

"_It's clear that you and Castle have something real, and you're fighting it. But trust me, putting the job ahead of your heart is a mistake. Risking our hearts is why we're alive._ _The last thing you want is to look back on your life and wonder…if only."_

She's repeating that mistake: self-sabotaging for reasons she doesn't understand. Does she think that being happy should not be her lot in life? Because her mother's life was tragically cut short, her father's life almost destroyed in the aftermath? Does she really believe that happiness is not her gift, that loneliness and self-denial should be her burden too? That a life of service is the only way to atone for the loss her family has suffered? Or is she afraid to love the way her parents loved for fear that one day she will have to face the same unimaginable pain? Because her mother would not want that for her and her father certainly doesn't. And she's facing that pain now anyway with Castle missing, no matter that she walked away from the happy future he was offering her.

She also realizes, in the face of his letter, that it's no longer just her own life she's sacrificing if she stays on this current path. There is Castle, selfless, generous, kind, loving, loyal, adorable Castle. But there is also Alexis and Martha, she acknowledges with a guilty stab to her heart. Left yet again to pick up the pieces, and just how worried must they both be feeling right now?

She opens her notepad, finds a blank page and begins to write a reply to Castle's letter, determined that she will one day give it to him herself.

One day soon.

* * *

The island of Manhattan materializes on the left hand side of the aircraft ten minutes or so after they descend through the low cloudbase. Her home. Their playground. The place she fell in love, and somewhere out there, if Jerry Tyson is running true to form, the location where Castle is being held hostage.

She stares out at the familiar skyline: Midtown rising like a jagged set of teeth beyond the flat expanse of Central Park. One World Trade Centre now a vivid, shining landmark in lower Manhattan, as they gracefully turn right on their final descent towards Newark Liberty Airport.

The small statue of Lady Liberty is just visible off the island's southern-most tip when Kate cranes her neck to look backwards at her home, before the multicolored container stacks and rusty oil and gas storage tanks of Port Newark-Elizabeth Marine Terminal takes over. The large blue and yellow Ikea building right by the New Jersey Turnpike, with its ever-busy parking lot, rushes up alongside them and is the last thing Kate registers before the wheels touch down on the asphalt with a heavy thud and she breathes out.

* * *

Seven thirty-five and they are taxiing to the stand. It feels good to stretch her legs when the shuffle of passengers with too much carry-on luggage is finally over and she can step out onto the jetway.

She makes her way to baggage reclaim, visits the bathroom while waiting for the carousel to shudder to life and begin dispensing an entire planeload of luggage. Her face is pale under the harsh restroom lighting, her mascara slightly smudged. She tidies up as best she can and heads out to wait on her bag.

Last-on-first-off is a bonus this time around. Her grey, hardsided, Samsonite wheeled case appears on the baggage carousel just behind a couple of Priority tagged bags. She lifts it off and dumps it on the floor, quickly checking the label to make sure it is hers. Her finger catches on the red ribbon tied around the handle. Castle put it there when they went skiing, she remembers with a jolt. He bought this matching set of his n' hers cases – _'the latest lightweight polycarbonate shell, Beckett'_ – especially for that trip.

She forces down the lump in her throat and pulls up the retractable handle, turning with renewed determination towards the exit sign.

* * *

Once past Customs, she clears the sliding doors out into the landside portion of the airport intending to head straight to the taxi stand. The noise levels increases and she strides past the sea of waiting faces - families eager to greet loved ones, uniformed limo drivers holding up signs with unusual-sounding names scrawled on pieces of card, and the gypsy cab touts combing the flood of arriving tourists for unsuspecting victims.

But as she nears the end of the chrome barrier, she hears her name being called, shakes her head in confusion, wondering if all the introspection and memory sifting she's been indulging in over the last few hours is playing tricks on her.

"Yo! Beckett! Over here."

It's Esposito, and he's waving to her.

"_Espo?_" she says weakly, fighting back a wave of emotion.

"Welcome back. Didn't think we'd leave you to fend for yourself, did you?" he asks, giving her a slightly awkward hug.

"I…" she shakes her head again, at a loss for words.

"Where's the rest of the team?" he asks, looking behind her.

"The…?"

"You the advance guard?" he offers.

"Yeah. Could call it that," she says, giving him a feeble smile. "Or the Lone Ranger," she mutters to herself, as he busies himself taking the bag from her shoulder and then the case from her hand, before leading her towards the exit.

"Ryan's outside with the engine running. Wanted to be your wheelman," he jokes, turning back to make sure she doesn't lose him in the throng.

"And Castle?" she asks, hurrying to catch up with him. "Anything? Any news?"

"Let's get to the Precinct and we'll fill you in."

* * *

_A/N: Thank you for all the messages and reviews to Chapter 1. They do make me write faster and that's no lie. Have a great Castle-less Monday. Shooting begins tomorrow and somehow that still makes me smile, regardless of what angst the story holds in store for us. Liv_


	3. Chapter 3 - Picking Up The Threads

_A/N: Appreciate all the comments, guys. Writing as fast as I can here. :) Thanks to BlueOrchid96 for today's song._

* * *

"_I'm coming home_

_I'm coming home_

_Tell the World I'm coming home_

_Let the rain wash away all the pain of yesterday_

_I know my kingdom awaits and they've forgiven my mistakes_

_I'm coming home, I'm coming home_

_Tell the World I'm coming...home."_

_**- J. Cole **Lyrics__, sung by **Diddy/Skylar Grey**, 'I'm Coming Home'_

* * *

_**Chapter 3: Picking Up The Threads**_

"Anything from the loft?" she asks, immediately the pleasantries are out of the way, settling down in the back of the Charger as Ryan noses the car away from the curb and back into the slow, untidy line of traffic heading out of Newark Liberty.

"Nothing so far. If Tyson was there, he was sure to wear gloves or wiped it down good and clean."

"And Eduardo? You spoke with him, right? Did he give you anything?"

"He's out sick, Beckett," chips in Ryan, over his shoulder. "Been gone almost eight weeks now. Prostate cancer, apparently."

Kate feels deeply unsettled by this – five years Eduardo has been a mainstay of the Castle family landscape, ever since she's known the writer – and it leads her to wonder what else she's missed, what else has changed in the eleven weeks since she's been gone?

"That's terrible," she says, reflexively. "And his replacement?" she asks, reframing her focus, pushing on for Castle's sake.

"Sonny Manovich, 53 years old, married, two kids in college. Member of 32BJ since '85. Already ran him. Guy's clean," says Esposito.

"Speak to his Union Rep?"

"Beckett, the guy is clean as a whistle. Came to Castle's building after ten years at a co-op on Lex."

"Good leaver?" she persists.

"Yes. No complaints, no write-ups, no grievance procedures. He had a spotless record. Old building's closed for a major remodel. Asbestos in the walls or something. Guy had references up the wazoo."

"Fine. But that leaves us with a new guy who wouldn't know a regular contractor from…from Jerry Tyson," she sighs in frustration, staring out the window at the everyday detritus that lies by the side of the highway.

Why only ever one shoe, she wonders randomly, her eye catching fleeting sight of one grubby, abandoned sneaker tossed next to the Jersey barrier.

"We have copies of the sign-in sheets since before you…eh…left," says Esposito, who then swivels his head to look at Ryan who then coughs uncomfortably.

"I'll take a look. See if anything jumps out," Kate replies, stepping over the awkwardness to keep things moving along.

Okay, so she left, made probably the dumbest decision of her life. But they all need to get over it, move on and focus on finding Castle. Herself included.

* * *

"Cell phone?" she asks, training her mind back to procedure.

"Dead. No activity since his final call to Rachel arranging to meet up at the library. That call was picked up by a cell tower in lower Manhattan. Bleecker, corner of MacDougal, suggesting he was most likely home when the call was made."

Kate feels her skin prickle uncomfortably at the mention of Rachel McCord's name.

"Phone's switched off, which means no GPS. SIM's probably gone by now too," continues Esposito.

"Right," says Kate, thoughtfully, biting her lip. "What about the car? No further forward with the tracking system?"

"Company says it's been disabled. Dead as his cell phone."

She keeps hearing the word 'dead' and keeps trying to ignore it. All of this, every _dead end_, is classic Tyson. But so is keeping his victim alive to taunt them. She hopes the guy is still running the same playbook, that he'll get in touch with them soon, and that they're not too late.

* * *

Ryan parks in front of the Precinct, and Kate looks around. Things are just slightly, subtly different. Just a little off. More leaves on the trees across the street, freshly painted lines on the road out front, new 'Missing' posters stuck on the noticeboard inside the entrance.

"Well, well, well. If it ain't Miss Bigshot FBI back to slum it with Tango and Cash," jokes the big, burly desk Sergeant with the hearty, booming laugh and even louder voice.

Kate cringes inwardly, but succeeds in smiling outwardly, ignoring the sympathetic glance she gets from Ryan.

"Yeah, well, someone's got to keep standards up around here. Wife run out of Tide again, Sarge?" she jokes, pointing at the grease stains on the front of the man's shirt, where his lunch obviously missed his mouth and crash-landed on his belly.

"Very funny. They teach you that at Quantico, Beckett? Little stand-up routine while the rest of us do the real policing around here? And speakin' of real policing, we're short the full set. Where's Writer-Cop?"

The guys don't know where to look.

"_Oh_, speaking of real policing?" asks Beckett, looking witheringly at the man who spends his day behind a desk sitting on his ass. "We actually have things to do, cases to solve, you know, just minor stuff like that. Gotta make you look good somehow, eh, Sarge?" she throws back, as they prepare to move on.

Esposito gives her a fist-bump for her out-of-character comeback and the three quickly sail past.

"Put that ass-hat in his place," hisses Espo, as they wait for the elevator.

"Who else knows about Castle's disappearance?" asks Kate, looking back over her shoulder.

"Just Gates, McCord, the rest of the team up on Homicide. Why?"

"Good. Keep it that way. I don't want this leaking out to the media. We don't want to do anything that's going to set Tyson off and put Castle's life in more danger. If the time comes and we need to use the press, we manage it ourselves. We've got to stay out in front of this thing. I'll call Paula later, fill her in."

"Got it," says Esposito, not knowing how to remind Beckett that she doesn't run the show anymore, since she seems to have forgotten entirely.

* * *

The elevator arrives and they all pile in.

_The elevator. _

The doors close and Kate gets as close to an attack of claustrophobia as she's ever experienced. It looks the same, it smells the same, the floor is scuffed, the NYPD seal still printed on the back wall… But he's not here. He's not here anymore and it hits her like a ton of bricks - that she'll step off that elevator, walk into the bullpen, and her desk won't be her desk anymore and her partner is…_gone_, lost, kidnapped by a psychopathic maniac.

Everything has changed. She thought that she'd moved on to something better, left all of this behind, when in truth, this world, _her_ world, moved on without her. And she's not sure she likes that anymore.

"Beckett? You okay?" asks Ryan, and she realizes she's been breathing too rapidly, the heel of her hand pressed to her chest again.

"Yeah, fine. We…uh…we need to speak to TARU. Speed up the work on Castle's laptop. Tyson hacked his email last time. Who have we got from tech working on the it?"

"Beckett, they're going as fast as they can. Encryption software these days…?" says Ryan, shaking his head. "Not to mention the millions of web proxies out there ready to conceal an IP address. It's complex work."

"Don't you think I know that!" she snaps, drawing both men up short just as they round the corner into the bullpen proper.

Several heads look up at the sound of a raised voice, and then curiosity makes way for smiles and hellos and the odd wave of welcome for such a familiar face.

"Sorry I snapped," concedes Kate, in a more reasonable tone. "I just…" she shakes her head.

"Beckett, you don't have to explain. We get it. We love the guy too, remember?" says Esposito, drawing her over to his own desk for a little privacy. "These guys, TARU, CSU, they all know we treat this like one of our own is missing. Right? They _know_ that already. Highest priority."

"Good. Good. Then let's get to it," says Kate, turning automatically towards her old desk and finding herself looking into the pale blue eyes and raised eyebrows of one Detective – Second Grade, Rachel McCord.

* * *

Rachel stands, and Ryan hurries over to make the introductions.

"Sorry, Beckett. This is Detective Rachel McCord. Rachel, Kate Beckett, our former… Yeah, well…I'm sure you know already," he shrugs, awkwardly backing away.

Rachel is tall and athletic looking, though not quite as tall as Kate. Her blond hair is cut in a sharp, glossy bob and her ice-blue eyes and angular jaw hint at some Scandinavian heritage. She is fine boned, with long slender fingers, Kate notes, as she takes the proffered hand – no rings – but her grip is as firm as any man's.

"Pleasure," says McCord, giving Kate a courteous nod. "Heard a lot about you. Good to finally put a face to the legend," she adds, and Kate frowns slightly, wondering what exactly she's been told and by whom and if the woman might actually be taking the piss.

"I see you two have already met," says Victoria Gates, suddenly appearing out of her office, before Kate can even respond. The Captain comes over to give Kate a warm handshake. "How are things at the Attorney General's office, Special Agent Beckett?" she grins, evidently taking great pleasure in her protégée's rise up the career ladder.

"I'm afraid that information is classified, Sir," jokes Kate automatically, before the mask slips and her face falls. "I just wish I wasn't back here under these circumstances," she admits, with a downcast nod.

"Agreed. But you're here now, and we're all doing everything we can to find Mr. Castle, as you would expect," she assures Kate, with a quick squeeze of her forearm.

She turns away from Kate to address the rest of the bullpen.

"Right," Gates claps her hands and raises her voice to garner attention. "Now that Beckett is back with us, let's use her extensive knowledge of Jerry Tyson to the fullest. I want us all to gather in the conference room so we can bring her up to speed on developments thus far. Come prepared to contribute to this briefing, people. Five minutes," she yells.

* * *

"I'm going to go get a coffee," says Kate, scanning the guys' faces and finally turning to Rachel. "Anyone need anything?"

"Why don't I come with you?" suggests Rachel, before Kate can escape to be by herself.

She's finding this whole experience increasingly taxing and emotional. Just being back is hard enough – highlighting the contrast in pace and methods and familiarity compared to the austere, clinical setting in D.C..

"So…how's life in the major leagues?" asks Rachel, as Kate stares down the coffee machine, wondering if Castle's prints are still on it somewhere, wishing more than anything that he was here at her back, pestering her about some stupid thing or other, working his fingers under the hem of her shirt.

God she misses him.

"Not so fun as you might think," she replies, honestly, trying to remember how this damn thing works.

"Here. Let me," offers Rachel, grabbing a couple of cups and placing them under the nozzle. "Americano okay?"

"Sure. Fine," concedes Kate, backing away to sit at one of the high stools in the center of the room.

"I hope you won't think me out of line here, but I need to ask…" she begins, pressing a button and then turning around as the machine springs to life under her sharp efficiency.

"Mmm?" hums Kate, distractedly, flicking her eyes around the room, looking for any sign of him, any lingering clue that he was ever here and not just some wonderful figment of her imagination.

"Do you think it's possible that Rick has just…I don't know…_disappeared?_" she suggests. "That he might have taken off for a while to be by himself? He seemed pretty cut up over your break-up. Is that a possibility?"

This stranger's use of Castle's first name jars and Kate can't decide where to even begin with this line of questioning. The thought never occurred to her in the slightest. And from what the guys have told her, the evidence doesn't back that possibility up either. But if this woman, who obviously spent time with him recently, is under the impression that he's dealing with a break-up…

"I took a job in another city. That's all," she manages to get out. "We're…it's complicated. But he's not…" she sighs, massaging the back of her neck.

"Hey, you don't need to explain complicated to me," she adds, with a wry laugh, handing Kate a cup of black coffee. "I've already got the t-shirt. I just wondered if maybe… He seemed so…so sad or maybe _lost_ is a better way to… Look, I'm sorry. I must sound like I'm prying. Only, I really liked the guy and…"

Kate hears her use of the past tense and she stiffens.

"He wouldn't do that. Just take off. He has a daughter—"

"Alexis, yes, I know. She's so lovely," pitches in Rachel, and Kate feels her heart sinking like a stone.

"And his mom… So, no, he would never take off without telling them first."

"When did you two last speak?" ask Rachel, sitting down opposite Kate, and she gets the distinct impression she's being subtly interrogated. "I mean, I'm just wondering… His state of mind had…well, even the guys thought he was barely treading water this past week."

Kate feels sick, her mind screaming 'what have you done', 'what have you done', over and over. But she can't let this stranger know anything about how she's feeling. She has to remain professional to be of any use to him now, to have any chance of seeing him again and telling him just how sorry she is.

"I've been busy. New job," she says quietly, avoiding the question. "_You_ know how that goes," she adds, nodding in the other woman's direction. "Long days and nights, little time off, new city."

"Must be exciting," replies Rachel, trying to draw out more. "Federal government resources at your fingertips. Took me over a month to get a replacement for that ratty old chair out by the desk," she jokes, and Kate has to bite her tongue.

Just one more piece of their history that's gone missing, consigned to a dump somewhere.

"We should probably…" says Kate, hopping down off the stool and then carrying her cup towards the door.

* * *

Gates has everyone assembled around the conference room table, and a quiet settles over the gathering when Kate and Rachel enter the room.

"Right, now that we're all here, let's begin at the top. Ryan, why don't you start us off on Castle's last known movements."

Kate feels like she's having some kind of out of body experience as Ryan describes the comings and goings of the man who proposed to her barely three months ago. Information goes up on the board and it's like she's looking at the life of a stranger, just another case, until she spots familiar patterns emerging – their local coffee shop, a credit card charge at a dry cleaner on Wooster, Mr. Chin, Kate's brain supplies, lunch the day he disappeared at Remy's, which turns out to be the last time anyone saw him.

"We left Remy's at two," she hears Rachel chip in. "Rick didn't say where he was going afterwards. When he called me at four-thirty he was at home. We arranged to meet at the main library entrance on Fifth at seven o'clock. He never showed up. I waited for twenty minutes, called a few times. Calls went straight to voicemail. Even dropped by the loft, but no one was home."

Kate thinks she might gag. This woman has been to the loft, met Alexis, calls him by his first name…

"Beckett? Kate?" she hears Gates saying, and she look up in panic, a roomful of faces all staring at her.

"Sir?"

"It seems, given Rachel's information, that we have to go with the theory that Mr. Castle was taken by force some time between 4.30pm and 10am the next day, when his mother came home and discovered him gone."

"Right," nods Kate, her mind spinning. "I understand that his cell phone is now turned off completely," she adds.

"Yes. It was dead by the time I rang him first thing the next morning. We put a trace on it. But…nothing since then," confirms Rachel.

"We have security cam footage of his Mercedes heading through the Holland Tunnel at 7.05pm with Tyson at the wheel the night Castle seems to have gone missing, as I understand it. So that narrows our window surely?"

"Unless Tyson held him at the loft after he called Rachel," suggests Ryan.

"And took the car to New Jersey for a spin by himself," offers Esposito.

"Why would he? No, I'm thinking Tyson showed up closer to seven, got him out immediately. Less risk involved that way. But we need to check the building's security cameras between 4.00pm and 7.00pm for anyone who came in or out. And there's been no signal from the car's tracking system?" clarifies Kate.

"No. All we know is that the car entered the Tunnel. After that its whereabouts are unknown," confirms Gates. "Exit lane cameras were down for maintenance that night so we don't know what route he took."

"Great," sighs Kate, in frustation.

"The car could be lying at the bottom of the Hudson by now or parked up in a lock-up or a parking garage somewhere, torched or abandoned," says Esposito, not helping Kate's mental state one bit.

"There's a BOLO out on the car, license plates have been circulated to all mobile units, and Mr. Castle was officially declared a missing person as of this morning," adds Gates, giving Esposito a silencing look.

* * *

"And Tyson. What do we know about him?" asks Kate, scanning the assembled faces to dead silence.

"We…" begins Gates, reluctantly.

"Nothing," jumps in Rachel McCord. "He was recorded as 'Missing, Presumed Dead' in the report you submitted after Rick's last brush with the guy. No one has seen hide nor hair of him since. He's a ghost come back from the dead."

Kate stares at the blurry black and white image of Tyson's pale, cold face hanging up on the board, as he sits behind the wheel of Castle's car.

"He's no ghost and we _cannot_ afford to underestimate this guy for a second. He's highly intelligent, well organized, seems to have access to resources last we met. We discount his abilities at our peril, do you understand?" she asks, sounding more and more like her old self. "If he runs true to form he will let us know that he's around and that he's the one running this puppet show…_very soon_."

"What makes you think he won't just…" asks Rachel, pausing over the one word Kate knows she has to face, but doesn't want to hear.

"Kill him?" she offers bravely, staring Rachel down from the opposite side of the table.

Rachel nods. "Sorry to bring it up, I know that you two were…"

"What we are is irrelevant here. Richard Castle has helped this department solve many cases over the last five years. He has devoted countless hours of his time and even money on occasion to help _our_ cause, _our_ quest for justice. We owe it to him to make certain that Rachel's worst-case scenario does not come to pass," she tells the assembled squad. "This guy, Jerry Tyson, he's an attention seeker. His work is pointless to him without an audience. We _will_ hear from him. Of that I am certain. In fact, you may already have, and it's possible his message was so subtle that you missed it."

"What are you suggesting, Kate?" asks Gates.

"That he lured Castle with the case he and Rachel have been working on – the library killing. The coded messages are Tyson's M.O. – a way to show how smart he is, and a way to reel Castle in to his sick little game. We need to look back at those messages and make sure that they referred to that killing alone and don't extend beyond it to Castle's disappearance."

"If he even had anything to do with that murder," points out Gates. "We don't know that for sure."

"Oh, he did. I'm certain of it," replies Kate, determinedly, sounding so much like Castle with one of his hunches that Gates has to bite her tongue.

* * *

"Rachel, why don't you brief Kate on the Library case. Ryan, continue checking the CCTV from Castle's building and pull all traffic cam footage from surrounding streets. The Castle residence is less than ten blocks from the entrance to the Holland Tunnel. Esposito, follow-up on any possible links between the deceased and what we already know about Jerry Tyson. We need to know if he picked this guy at random, although that seems unlikely given the communications with the wife. But we have to tie the two together somehow."

Esposito's cell phone rings and Gates give him a cold stare.

"Sir, it's Martha Rodgers. Castle's mother. I should…" Esposito says, glancing over at Kate, whose cheeks flush at the mention of the woman's name.

She hasn't seen or spoken to Martha since she made the decision to leave. She more or less lived under the same roof as her for the best part of a year and then she skipped town, walked out of her beloved son's life, without telling her why or saying goodbye. To say she's been dreading this is an understatement.

"Beckett," says Esposito, jerking his head towards the door. "You should be in on this."

She's about to shake her head, but leaving with him seems the easier of two evils right now with everyone listening and watching her every move.

* * *

"Javier, you said to call if anything strange happened," says Martha, her voice strained.

Kate stands by his side, listening to the call on speaker.

"Are you okay? Tell me what happened, Mrs. R?" asks Esposito, kindly.

"We got a delivery. It came about fifteen minutes ago. Someone left it with the new doorman."

"What is it Martha?" asks Kate, unable to handle the suspense any longer.

"_Katherine?_ Is that you?" she exclaims, and Kate can hear the shock and tension, and possibly even relief in her voice.

"Yes. I…I was going to call you later," she tells her almost mother-in-law, though the statement sounds false even to her own ears. "I just got in a couple of hours ago," she admits.

"Oh, Kate, I'm so glad you're back," says Martha, no hint of animosity in her voice, just pure relief.

"What was in the delivery you were calling about?" she asks, dragging Martha back on topic.

"Well, that's the strange thing, my dear. It's a plant."

"A plant? As in a house plant?" clarifies Kate.

"Yes. And it's addressed to you."

Kate's heart skips a beat, but she slows it back down. It could be nothing, just some mistake, some simple…

"Was there a card?" asks Esposito.

"Yes."

"What does it say _exactly?_" he asks, giving Kate a long look.

"The card reads: '_Welcome Home, Kate. All my love, Rick x.'_ But how would he even know that you're—?"

"Martha? Martha, listen to me," interjects Kate, clutching Esposito's arm. "Don't touch anything. Understand? Leave everything exactly as you found it. We'll be right over."

* * *

_A/N: Dun, dun, dun! :)_


	4. Chapter 4 - Going Back To Move Forward

_A/N: Loving all the review messages. Thank you! You make my day. :)_

* * *

_"So, bless my heart and bless my mind.  
I got so much to do, I ain't got much time  
So, must be someone up above saying,  
"Come on, girl! Yeah, you got to get back up!  
You got to hold on...  
Yeah, you got to hold on..."_

_**- Alabama Shakes,** 'Hold On'_

* * *

_**Chapter 4: Going Back to Move Forward**_

They stand in the hallway outside the loft's front door and Kate surveys the floor, feeling awkward, since she still has a key in her purse, but doesn't feel she has the right to use it anymore.

So, yeah, it's awkward, and they wait.

Esposito stands by her side, one hand jammed in his pocket, the other carrying a brown cardboard evidence box, silent and patient.

"Think it's him?" he asks her suddenly, and then he shakes his head. "Course it's him," he adds to himself, tapping the toe of his boot on the tile.

Kate bites her lip, finally forcing out the question that's been lingering at the back of her throat like a bitter essence all the way from the Precinct.

"Castle and Rachel…?" she begins hesitantly, turning to look a Esposito for some guidance, a clue, just as the door is thrown wide and Martha appears, looking as stunningly over-the-top as ever; no grim, life-threatening situation a damper for her flamboyant dress sense it would appear.

"Darling!" she declares, her eyes shining, immediately holding out her arms to Kate, and drawing her into a hug.

"Martha, I'm so sorry," whispers Kate, and she's not entirely sure what she's apologizing for.

That she left without saying goodbye, that she left her son hanging, that her son is missing, that it appears he's been taken by Jerry Tyson, that they're disturbing her so late at night, or all of the above.

"I'm just glad you're here," says Martha, giving her a final squeeze and then finally letting her go. "And Javier, darling don't just stand there. Come in! Come in!" she says, giving Esposito a kiss on the cheek when he finally enters the loft.

* * *

Kate stands inside the entrance looking out at the last place she called home before leaving for D.C. She moved out a week before she left. The long silences and quiet air of defeat, the guilt and unvoiced hurt and accusations - all too much for her to take in the end. She left a lot of her things behind, just packed the essentials and left quietly one morning after the saddest of breakfasts and a long, heartbreaking kiss goodbye.

She feels everything rising up in her throat, all the things she's been fighting back for the last ten or eleven weeks, prickling behind her eyes, choking her, and she has to mash it back down inside or she knows she'll lose it and be of absolutely no use to her partner at all.

"So," she says, clearing her throat, "can you show us the delivery?" she asks, turning to see Martha and Esposito quietly watching her.

They've seen it all, she can tell, everything she's feeling being back here, and she gives them both the barest shake of her head to let them know that she can't, that this isn't the time.

"I left it over on the counter, exactly where Sonny put it down when he brought it in," says Martha, her eyes full of quiet sympathy, sympathy Kate thinks she might drown in if she looks for too long.

* * *

Esposito gloves up and hands a set to Kate.

"What time did it arrive?"

"Just before nine-thirty I think he said. He buzzed up, but I was taking a nap. I—Sleep and I have been strangers the last few nights," admits Martha, with a shrug, and Kate nods sympathetically. "So, I catnap when I can."

"Kind of late for a flower delivery," notes Kate to Esposito.

"Guess you can get twenty-four hour anything these days. Let's see if there's a florist store number anywhere on here and I'll call them."

The plant is some kind of orchid, presented in a plain white, glazed ceramic pot. The leaves are a mid-to-dark green color, glossy and growing straight upwards. Several flowers rise on delicate, narrow stems from the tubular sheath at the base of the leaves: dark maroon petals, three in all forming each flower, which each measure around 5cms across. The fleshy petals come out at angles, each finishing in a trailing point, like little hooded bonnets with long ribbon ties and bright yellow stamen at their core, akin to a tiny face.

Kate touches one flower gently with the tip of a latex-covered finger and it nods to her, continuing to bob and tremble when she withdraws her finger.

"We'll need a set of elimination prints from Manovich," she murmurs to Esposito, who is gently removing the plastic spike that contains the gift card from the base of the pot.

"Already in the system," he replies. "CSU took a set when they first came in to process the place."

* * *

Kate looks over her shoulder at Martha who is standing nearby with a worried look on her face, her arms hugging her slender body. She feels sorry for the ordeal she's had to go through recently: the upheaval and distress of having all those bunny-suited strangers in her home, dirtying up the surfaces with fingerprint powder, splaying Luminol everywhere and moving objects and furniture around in an effort to find out if violence was used to kidnap her son.

"How're you holding up?" asks Kate, coming to stand beside her.

"Oh, you know me, kiddo," she says fondly and with a hint of a tired smile. "The show must go on."

"Of course," smiles Kate, not believing a word of it, if the dark circles under the woman's eyes and the deepened lines running from her nose to her mouth are anything to go by.

"This handwriting look familiar to you?" asks Esposito, and both woman approach to take a closer look.

"Well, it's not Richard's, that's for sure," says Martha. "Too neat for one thing."

"Looks more like a woman's handwriting to me," says Kate, judging by the curled, looping script. "Maybe a left-hander?" she suggests, looking at the right-leaning slope of the letters.

"Can get a graphologist to take a look," says Esposito, bagging up the note. "And we have a winner on the florist," he adds, turning the note over in the clear plastic baggie. "_Petals_, over on—"

"Houston," supplies Kate. "Castle used that place all the time. He…he has an account there. Martha, you remember the name of the owner? The tiny blond woman with the little dog, what was her…?"

"Elaine!" declares Martha, throwing her hands in the air in triumph. "Life in the old brain yet," she laughs, her eyes still tired, but her spirits lifted a little by having company and something to go on at last.

"Yes, that's it. Elaine. Right, we'll head over there in the morning. Have a talk with her. Find out who placed the order and who was slated to deliver it. In the meantime, we'll get this to CSU. I'm pretty sure they won't find anything. But you never know," says Kate, watching Esposito carefully place the plant in the evidence box for transportation.

* * *

As they walk towards the door, Martha takes Kate's arm.

"Are you bags out in the hall, dear?" she asks, and Kate turns to her in surprise.

"My bags?"

"You are staying? I've put fresh linen on the bed," she says, looking a little puzzled.

"I…"

Kate glances at Esposito, who tells her he'll wait out in the hall for her.

"Martha, I was going to stay with Lanie. I don't want to impose and—"

"Nonsense! Katherine, this is your home," she declares, waiting for Kate's reply.

"I'm not quite sure Rick would see it that way," says Kate, quietly, looking down at her feet. "I'm not sure it would be fair to…" she shakes her head.

"Fair to whom, dear?"

"To all of you. I…I've made quite a mess of everything, Martha. Handled things badly. I think it's best if I go and stay with Lanie for now. Focus on finding him and bringing him home."

"By all means go. But if you think for a second that you've made some mistake here, Kate, you have to stick around to make it right. Not run. That's not who you are anymore. And if I know anything about my son, it's that no one has a bigger heart or a greater capacity for forgiveness than he has."

"But what if I don't deserve his forgiveness?" Kate asks, turning plaintive eyes on Castle's mother.

"Maybe this isn't about what _you_ deserve, hmm? But about what _he_ deserves," suggests Martha, making Kate blush with her frankness and her blunt observation, which baldly highlights Kate's continued capacity for self-interest.

"Besides, if that gift really did come from this…this psychopath you think is holding Richard, surely it would be better that you stay here, where is thinks he can reach out to you, than at Lanie's where something could be missed?"

Kate's resolve crumbles in the face of this final, logical argument.

* * *

There's a light tap on the front door and Esposito pops his head around.

"I brought your bags up from the car," he tells Kate, giving her a wink and a winning smile.

"You too?" she smiles back.

"I'll makes us some tea, shall I?" suggests Martha, giving Kate and Esposito a little time to say goodnight in private.

"Take care, Mrs. R!" says Esposito, giving her a departing wave, before Kate walks him out down the hall.

"I'll pick you up first thing and we'll go visit that florist. Try to get some sleep, Kate. You look exhausted," he tells her, giving her a hug.

"Thanks, Javi," she agrees, stepping back when the elevator doors open. "See you in the morning."

It's only when the elevator doors close again that she remembers he never answered her question about Castle and Rachel McCord.

* * *

"Chamomile," says Martha, pushing a cup towards Kate and then settling in beside her at the kitchen counter.

They drink their tea in silence for a few minutes, and then Martha speaks again.

"He's so proud of you, you know."

"_Proud?_" repeats Kate, unable to believe what she's hearing, since she herself feels nothing but shame, faced with this woman's kindness and apparent forgiveness, despite her recent behavior.

"Of everything you've achieved, my dear. This job you've taken…such a big step up. And I think he envies you in some ways too. The difference you're able to make, the world you've moved into, your grace and intelligence. He sees even greater things ahead for you in the future, Katherine."

"But, Martha, I've hurt him so much," confesses Kate, tears finally cresting in her eyes.

"He'll get over it," the older woman soothes, patting Kate's hand. "He's a big boy."

"What if I don't want him to get over it?" blurts Kate, pressing her fingertips to her lips, an image of Rachel McCord swimming in front of her eyes.

"Oh, darling, I didn't mean he'd get over _you_. No, merely that he was hurt and angry when you left the way you did, yes. But in time he will understand why you felt you had to go about things that way. We're not so different, you and I," confides Martha. "Even when Richard was a baby I knew I needed more than to be a mother, no matter how wonderful a child he was."

"I just don't know how to do both," confesses Kate. "I wanted this challenge so much…but now…" She shakes her head.

"And there you've hit upon the age old dilemma of ambitious women all over the world. We're made to feel it's wrong to want more than home and hearth and family at times. But, darling, it is possible to have both. Thousands of women do it everyday."

"I thought I would have no time for him, that this job would demand all my attention and that if I tried to juggle everything I'd only end up failing on both fronts," Kate explains, working these things out for herself in order to share them with Martha.

"I can see that. But, you know, I believe my son loves you enough that he'd rather take the crumbs from your table than be starved of you everyday of his life. I don't like it, for his sake. I think he deserves more than scraps. But that's how things are for him where you're concerned."

Kate feels mortified and chastened by this gently delivered, but deeply punishing honesty.

"He's been pining, Kate. Struggling to find a place for himself since you've been gone. His writing is one thing he's always been good at, a way to lose himself from a world he sometimes felt he didn't fit into."

"But he's such a people person," protests Kate.

"Pah! That makes for a good front. A defense mechanism he learned as a child. Fit in or die. But he was his own true self more often around you than I've ever seen before. I think you understood the depths of each other's darkness more than anyone else, and you managed to shed a little light into one another's lives as a result. You _will_ find him?" she asks, turning her direct gaze on Kate.

"I'll do everything I can, Martha. You have my word."

"It's good to see you, my dear. I've missed these late night chats," she tells Kate, patting her hand and then sliding down off the stool.

"Tomorrow is a new day. Try to get some sleep. You'll find your things exactly where you left them. He is nothing if not hopeful," says Martha sagely, before kissing Kate goodnight. "We must remain hopeful too, for his sake."

* * *

Kate washes up their cups and then carries her bags into the bedroom she last shared with her partner. The room looks more as she left it than anything she's come across all day – as if it's been frozen in time, preserved, waiting here just for her return.

She opens the drawer in her nightstand. Her hair ties, a pair of earrings, a couple of bracelets, a book she never got around to finishing, the ticket stubs to a concert they attended together at Madison Square Garden, a leaflet for a yoga class on Spring Street, all still there exactly as she left them.

She begins to unpack slowly, feeling odd putting her clothes away in the closet, when she's not sure if this life is hers anymore; the one man who can answer that question not around to ask right now.

She washes her make-up off, and prepares for bed. She finds a worn t-shirt of Castle's in the laundry basket, pulls it on over her head, instantly enveloping herself in his familiar smell. She slides between the cool, fresh sheets, wishing Martha had left the old ones on, dragging Castle's pillow to her chest but smelling only lavender-scented fabric softener instead of him.

She falls asleep an hour later with tears dying on her cheeks. She misses him more now that she's back here. But she's feeling again at least, and that can only be a good thing. The robot version of herself left behind in Virginia, the frightened, real, sentient Kate right here in her partner's bed, trying frantically to telegraph to him that she's back and she's looking for him, and God willing, she will find him so that she can sit him down and explain everything. If only he will listen. If only he will grant her one more chance.

She dreams praying that he will.

* * *

_A/N: Thoughts? Love to hear from you. Liv_


	5. Chapter 5 - That Familiar Path

_A/N: Seems everyone liked Martha! Thank you for your continued support. See if you can spot the 'When Harry Met Sally' ref. Don't know how it ended up in here, it just worked its way in. :)_

* * *

_"Fire like lightening  
Burnin' up the night a smoke horizon  
Won't give up the fight  
Well, deep inside can you hear that call?  
Wakin' your heart and shakin' your walls  
Where love is found, the nations fall  
A cry will rise above it all"_

_**- Sugarland**, 'All We Are'_

* * *

_**Chapter 5: That Familiar Path**_

Esposito arrives just as she's finishing her second cup of coffee; alone in the quiet of Castle's kitchen, his favorite Batman mug cradled between two hands, listlessly scanning the newspaper.

"Let me just grab my bag," she says, after answering the door, leaving him standing in the foyer to head back to the bedroom.

She takes her phone off charge, stops to look at the silver chain curled up in a glass bowl on the dresser, both her mom's and her own engagement rings now strung side-by-side, and she picks them up, feeling the cool, pleasant weight in the palm of her hand. On a whim she lifts the chain over her head and drops the rings around her neck.

She's tucking them into the front of the grey cotton tank she has on under her white shirt, when she returns to the living room to find Esposito standing by the front door talking to Alexis, who has just arrived home with a duffle bag slung over one shoulder and a wheeled case towed behind her.

"Alexis," says Kate, feeling a familiar sense of guilt and dread creeping up her spine. "Are you…? I didn't know you were coming home."

"I could say the same," says the girl, matter-of-factly and a little coolly. "I thought Grams could use some company while dad is…" she shrugs, looks at the floor.

"It's good to see you," Kate tells her, coming over to give her a kiss on the cheek.

Alexis stiffens at her touch and Esposito clear his throat, reaching out to open the door, eager to get away from the tense scene.

"Beckett, we should probably…" he says, jerking his thumb out into the hall.

"Yeah. Be right there," Kate tells him, signaling with a glance that she needs a moment.

Esposito nods and then leaves to wait out in the hallway.

* * *

"Alexis, I know you're probably mad at me and you have every right to be," she tells Castle's daughter.

"You broke his heart," says Alexis, going straight for the jugular. "You couldn't just call every once and a while?" she asks, her face going pink with the effort it takes to say these things to Kate Beckett. "Was your job _that_ important to you? Twenty-four seven?"

"I'm sorry. I know I messed this up. But if I can just—"

"You know, I kept waiting for this to happen in the beginning," Alexis butts in, as if Kate hadn't spoken at all. "But then…everything seemed to change. You were so good together. I thought _you'd_ changed. That you _loved_ him. I guess I was wrong."

"You weren't wrong. I just got lost for a second. Made poor choices. Look, I have to go right now," she says, looking frantically out towards the hall, the clock ticking. "But let's talk properly tonight, okay? I want to make it up to you, Alexis, for leaving like I did."

"As if we didn't matter?"

"I'm so sorry. Give me a chance to prove—"

"_Find_ my dad," she tells Kate, cutting the older woman off, her jaw set stubbornly. "Then we can talk. Until then…" she shakes her head, backing away. "Just find my dad."

* * *

"How much of that did you hear?" asks Kate, trying to straighten her head out as she joins Esposito in front of the elevator, feeling punch-drunk by the teenager's unfamiliar reprimand.

"Enough."

"I've never seen her like that before. Castle would be so angry if he heard her speak like that."

"Well, she's hurt. For herself, for her dad. To be honest, Beckett, we're all a little hurt," he says calmly, no hint of the blame from his words translating to his voice however, just a simple statement of fact.

Kate shakes her head, smacks her forehead with the heel of one hand.

"Javi, what have I done?" she asks, plaintively, her voice little more than a hoarse whisper.

"I think you know what you did. Question is, do you want to fix it or do you want to give up and walk away?"

"I'm not giving up. We're going to find him."

"I mean _after_ we find him, Beckett. You need to think about what happens then. You can't go roaring in on your white charger and rescue the guy, only to leave him again to head back to your new life in D.C."

Kate feels chastened by Esposito's remark. They've moved way past their normal boundaries, but she knows this is something she needs to face.

"You're right. You're right. I know you're right," she admits, running both hands through her hair, restlessly turning in a circle.

"Look, I'm not dumping on you for no reason here, Kate. If I thought you were doing what made you happy, you know I'd support you one hundred percent. Truth is…you look miserable, girl."

"Thanks," says Kate, wryly, giving him a weak smile.

"Tell me you're happy and I'll shut up and we'll never speak about this again."

"I can't do that," admits Kate, shaking her head.

"Then let's go find him and make this right."

* * *

When they walk into the florist, the owner is just finishing up with a customer. They stand off to one side, quietly scanning the store as they wait. Kate's eyes land on a large bouquet of peony roses: large fluffy pink heads in full bloom, blooms that look too heavy for their stems, wrapped up in stiff, creamy paper. Castle bought her an almost identical bouquet from this very store the first time she invited him over for dinner at her apartment immediately after they started dating. The happy memory stings, and she finds herself having to turn away.

"Can I help you?" asks the owner, Elaine Lowell, as soon as the previous customer leaves. "Oh, hello. It's Kate, isn't it?" says the woman, smiling warmly at her, when Kate turns around. "You organized the flowers for Mr. Castle's birthday surprise. He told me all about it. Big success, from what I heard," she beams.

"Yes. Yes, it was," admits Kate, giving Esposito a quick curdled look, her eyes pleading.

"We need to ask you a few questions about a floral delivery that was sent to Mr. Castle's residence yesterday evening," cuts in Esposito, taking over for Kate, showing the woman his badge.

"Ah, yes. The orchid," smiles Elaine. "Did you like it?" she asks Kate.

"So, it did come from your store?" clarifies Esposito, saving her from having to answer.

"Well, yes. Technically," she says, before pausing.

"Technically?" asks Esposito, frowning. "Can you clarify? Sorry, I'm just…"

"That particular orchid is a very rare specimen, Detective. An epiphyte, they're called. A species that grows _on_ another plant. They're only found in the forests of Colombia and Ecuador where they grow on the trunks of trees about two thousand meters above sea level."

"And…do you sell a lot of these epi-whatnots?" asks Esposito, a little at a loss for a follow-up question.

"Oh, no," laughs Elaine, shaking her head. "No. Far too expensive, and a little morbid, if you ask me," she whispers, covertly, though Kate can still hear her. "The Latin name is Masdevallia Cucullata, but they're commonly known as '_The Widow orchid'_," adds the florist. "Because of their dark, hooded flowers; like a woman's face shrouded in a mourning veil. This is no common houseplant we're talking. I had to track it down from a specialist orchid supplier. But the gentleman who ordered it was quite specific."

"_The gentleman?_" ask Kate and Esposito simultaneously, briefly glancing at one another.

The florist looks a little alarmed.

"Yes, the man from Mr. Castle's office who called. He asked for the orchid by name, said to charge it to Mr. Castle's account. Is there a problem?"

"Did you get a name?"

"Eh…Felix, I think. Yes, Felix Lepanthes."

"And what did he sound like? This Felix?" asks Kate.

"Eh…I'm not sure. Well spoken, I suppose. Slight accent. Maybe Greek or Italian. Knew his orchidaceae, that's for sure. Oh, and he phoned a couple of weeks ago, but wanted me to hold the plant in the store until he gave me an exact delivery date."

"And you only spoke to him by phone?"

"Yes. That and the email he sent. I always ask for an email confirmation for telephone orders. Usually credit card details too. But since this was for Mr. Castle…" she tails off, smiling.

"Do you still have the email?"

"Yes. It'll be on my laptop in the back office."

"Can you print it off for us? In fact, forward it to this email address," says Esposito, handing the woman his business card. "And copy any other paperwork relating to the order while you're at it."

"Sure? But…can I ask what this is about?"

"We're investigating a series of thefts at a number of SoHo residences," says Kate, stepping in with the vaguest, most non-specific answer she can think of, before Esposito has to make something up.

"You need a value for the police report? Oh, no matter, the details are all on the email anyway," she says, waving her hand dismissively.

"And can you tell us when you got the call asking for the plant…the…the _orchid_ to be delivered?" asks Esposito.

"Yesterday evening. In fact, it was right before closing. We're open until 8pm. He insisted it had to be delivered that night. I would have argued, since I had a dinner engagement just after eight. But to be honest, I wanted the orchid out of the store before the flowers dropped. The Widow Orchid only flowers for a brief period in summer and I didn't want to be the one left holding the baby once those leaves were bare."

"So…if _you_ went to dinner, who carried out the delivery, Miss Lowell?" asks Kate.

"I called my son, Jack. He was at a friend's nearby. He agreed to come over and pick it up. He has a set of keys to the store, helps out sometimes after college. I left the orchid on the counter, the gift card was already written. It did arrive in one piece? Because if he screwed up…"

"No. No, it arrived safe and sound," reassures Kate. "We think maybe someone managed to get into the building while the doorman was talking to your son, that's all," she lies.

* * *

On the car ride back to the station, they mull over the information they have so far.

"We can run that name through the system, sure, but any money it's fake," says Kate, sinking down in the seat.

"When the Feds get here… Sorry, your _co-workers_," he grins, nudging her. "We'll get them working on the email trail. Make use of that fancy, government software."

Kate stares out of the window, watching familiar streets pass by.

"How did he know I was back?" she asks, at length, glancing over at Esposito.

"Maybe he didn't. Maybe he didn't even know you'd gone."

"Come on, Javi. The timing? And…and the _message_ – _Welcome Home, Kate_? This guy knows everything. So how did he know I was back in town?"

"He didn't know you weren't staying at the loft," he points out.

"But he ensured that I went _back_ _there_ as a result of that gift."

"No, Martha asked you back. Kate, don't get paranoid. That's what he wants. Remember how he got under Castle's skin the last time, had us all doubting his innocence? A guy we all knew so well. You've got to keep your head clear. Stay focused."

"That plant is called _The Widow Orchid_. What kind of message is he trying to send?" she muses, all but ignoring Esposito's advice.

"Maybe he liked the flowers. You're reading too much into—"

"Did you hear _anything_ she said back there?" snaps Kate. "_Rare_, expensive, hard to find. _Morbid!_ Come on, Javi, this is classic Tyson storytelling. Tease, taunt and manipulate. Show off his smarts. He's toying with us."

* * *

They ride the elevator in silence, Kate ceaselessly tapping her foot on the floor like something caged waiting to get out.

"Beckett, can I have a word?" asks Gates, the second they enter the bullpen.

"Sir?" she asks, before looking over at Rachel McCord for some reason.

"My office, please," insists Gates, coolly.

Kate gives Esposito and Ryan a look, shrugs and follows her former Captain into the office.

"Just when were you planning on telling me?" asks Gates, her hands planted on her hips.

"When, Sir?"

"Oh, don't play the innocent with me, Kate. I call to find out when the rest of your team are arriving only to be told…"

All of a sudden, there's a loud knock on the glass, and a serene, smiling face appears at the door.

"Well, well, well. Looks like someone's been a naughty girl," comes the teasing, sing-song voice of Special Agent Jordan Shaw.

* * *

_A/N: Dun, dun, dun! :) Loving your thoughts. Hope to hear more. Liv_


	6. Chapter 6 Friends In The Right Places

_A/N: This story is such a pleasure to write. I'm so glad it has sucked some of you in as much as it has me._

* * *

_"Don't walk behind me; I may not lead._

_ Don't walk in front of me; I may not follow._

_ Just walk beside me and be my friend."_

**_- Albert Camus._**

* * *

_**Chapter 6: Friends in All The Right Places**_

_Previously..._

_"Just when were you planning on telling me?" asks Gates, her hands planted on her hips._

_"When, Sir?"_

_"Oh, don't play the innocent with me, Kate. I call to find out when the rest of your team are arriving only to be told…"_

_All of a sudden, there's a loud knock on the glass, and a serene, smiling face appears at the door._

_"Well, well, well. Looks like someone's been a naughty girl," comes the teasing, sing-song voice of Special Agent Jordan Shaw._

* * *

"_Jordan_" exclaims Kate, unable to hide her surprise at seeing the FBI woman again.

However, she realizes with a dawning sense of futility that the instant the woman opened her mouth the game was up.

"Special Agent Beckett," she sings, enjoying her discomfort a lot more than Kate would like. "Or is it just plain Kate these days?" she grins, crossing her arms as she lounges agains the doorframe. "You're the talk of the town."

"You lied to me," interjects Gates, ignoring Jordan Shaw's relaxed taunt.

"No, Sir. With respect, I did not," insists Kate, turning back to face her former boss.

"Well, you'd better start explaining yourself pretty damn fast, before I throw you out of my Precinct for impersonating a Federal Agent. Or whatever it is you think you've come back here as."

"I don't believe I've had the pleasure," interjects Jordan, calmly coming into Gates' office and holding out her hand. "Special Agent Jordan Shaw. You must be Captain Gates."

"For my sins, yes," says Gates, pursing her lips as she drags her eyes away from Kate to address the FBI agent as if her protégée is some recalcitrant toddler she's about to put in time-out. "Good to have you on board, Agent Shaw."

"Please, call me Jordan. We're all friends here. Isn't that right, Kate," she grins, like a cat with a mouse.

Kate gives Jordan a warning look, realizing just how much trouble she's now in. But the woman is her friend and can help her find Castle, if anyone can. So she holds her tongue and stands her ground, determined to stay calm and play the long game here for Castle's sake.

"Why don't we all sit down and you can fill me in on Rick's latest adventure," she suggests, looking from one woman to the other, the tension palpable, Kate's future on this case hanging by a thread.

"Sir?" asks Kate, waiting to take a lead from her former boss.

"Fine. Sit. But I want to know what's going on with you before we proceed any further," says Gates, giving Kate a hard stare.

* * *

Kate sits down in one of the guest chairs in front of Gates' desk, while Jordan takes the other. She leans forward over her knees for a second, mustering her thoughts, before sitting bolt upright to begin fighting her corner.

"I got a call yesterday afternoon informing me that Castle had gone missing, seized from his apartment by Jerry Tyson it would appear. By the time I took that call I was already two days behind the evidence. I dropped everything, as you can imagine, went straight to my boss, requested a team, and…" Kate shakes her head, smiling grimly at the memory of the confrontation with her new boss, as she pushes a hand through her hair. "He politely declined. Said it wasn't our area. That I should get back to work and leave it to someone else."

"_And…_?" pushes Gates. "What then?"

"_And,_ I left. Went back to my apartment, packed a bag, got on the first flight to New York and here I am," Kate rattles out, thinking inwardly how rash and emotional a course of action this must sound to her by-the-book former boss.

"You _quit_?" asks Gates, in disbelief.

"No, I left. He's…" she pauses for a beat, taking a breath before resuming. "Sir, it's _Castle_," says Kate, with heartbreaking honesty, as if this should explain everything. "And he's out there somewhere being held by that maniac. Jordan, back me up here," says Kate, turning desperate eyes on the FBI agent. "Case history shows exactly what this guy is capable of. He obviously has some… some _sick obsession_ with Castle or with me and Castle. I don't know which. _You_ saw the lengths he went to to frame him last time," she reminds Gates. "You were there. And he almost succeeded too."

"Yes, I remember," concedes Captain Gates, steepling her fingers under her chin, thoughtfully.

"So, if it was _your_ husband," she asks Gates quietly, pretty certain of her answer, "would you just go back to your cubicle like a good girl and continue analyzing field reports? Or would you do whatever it took, move heaven and earth to find him?"

Gates pauses for a second, looking torn, sighs audibly and then mutters, "That man will be the death of me."

* * *

"Kate is right about Tyson," offers Jordan. "He is way smarter than the average bear and when he gets fixated on something he makes quite the opponent. His focus is ruthless and inexhaustible, and his lack of empathy makes him a formidable offender. We need to catch this guy and put him away once and for all."

"So, what are you suggesting? That I let Beckett work this case as…_what _exactly? She has no agency to back her up, no legal powers in this jurisdiction. She's no longer an NYPD Detective, and by the sounds of it she's burned her bridges in D.C. too."

"Well, then, it seems to me that she's your new Richard Castle," says Jordan, calmly, the barest hint of a clever smile playing at her lips. "At least for now, if you're in need of a precedent. Only she is infinitely more experienced, way better trained and…"

"_Armed_," chips in Kate, before Jordan can say something derogatory about Castle, seizing the opening she's just given her and running with it. "I'm still entitled to carry a firearm under LEOSA*," she points out, almost holding her breath.

"I assume at least your firearms qualification is up-to-date?"

"Carry the paperwork with me at all times," confirms Kate, eager to get a decision, since she sees a glimmer of light and is determined to chase after it.

"Captain Gates, if I have a say here, and I believe that I do, since this case is now a Federal matter, I would like to request Kate Beckett join my team for the duration. No one has a better insight into the mind of this killer than Kate…except possibly Richard Castle himself."

"You're willing take responsibility for her?"

"Without question, until we can figure out her status."

"Then…I guess you're in," says Gates to Kate. "But no more going rogue. Understand? We work this as a team, by the book."

Kate nods her agreement.

"Gather everyone in the conference room and prepare them to bring Jordan and her men up to speed. First, I'd like a word with Agent Shaw in private."

* * *

"What was all that about?" asks Esposito, the second Kate exits Gates' office, relief washing over her like a cold shower.

"I'll explain later. Meantime, Gates wants us to brief Shaw's team on developments to date. Conference room as soon as she's done conferring with Jordan."

"What do you think they're saying?" asks Ryan, as the three stand side-by-side watching their boss and the FBI woman talking earnestly through the blinds.

"I don't want to think about that right now," says Kate, turning away to look for somewhere to set up her stuff.

She finds Rachel McCord watching her when she turns around, and the Detective tries to quickly look away, but Kate is faster, and they lock eyes for a brief second.

"How're you holding up?" asks Rachel, with a sharp jerk of her chin in Kate's direction.

"Fine," replies Kate, her tone clipped, not in the least bit interested in engaging her in a heart-to-heart. "Where are we on links to the library victim? Get anything?"

Rachel is on the point of answering when Gates and Jordan Shaw reappear, chatting like old friends.

"Hold that thought," says Kate, grabbing a notepad. "Looks like we're on."

* * *

Jordan has a two-man team with her: a tech specialist called Danny Munro and an agent with fifteen years experience in kidnapping cases by the name of Fabio Hernandez.

They all gather around the conference room table while Rachel McCord takes the lead in the briefing on behalf of the home team. She begins by explaining the outline to the Library killing case, the one Kate believes Tyson set up to lure Castle into his web.

"Rick believed he'd cracked the code the killer was using in his messages," she reiterates for Shaw and Co.'s benefit. "It was based on the Dewy Decimal library classification system. I know that much. Notes were sent to the victim's wife in the days after he was found in the basement of the New York Public Library on Fifth, crushed inside one of the moveable shelf stacks. At first it just looked like a random series of numbers. We thought a phone number maybe, or a bank reference, vault location, coordinates, or some other key. But given the victim's location at time of death, Rick established the connection back to the library."

Jordan Shaw is watching Kate while Rachel performs for the room, and Kate glances at her briefly, catching her eye before turning away again.

"The subject classes are identified by three numbers: from 000 for Computer Science, Information and General Works, through 900 for History and Geography titles. These are then followed by a number of subdivisions. 040 for biographies, for example, and within that 046 would denote biographies in Spanish and Portuguese. I think Rick went to the library to check out his theory on the night he went missing," says Rachel, and Kate's head snaps up. "I don't believe he was taken from home at all. I think that he arranged to meet me at seven, but got there early, and Tyson snatched him off the street using his own car."

"What? _Why?_" asks Kate, shaking her head at this bombshell. "What makes you think that?"

"I had Martha send me over his note book," she explains, and Kate feels her blood run cold. She has to fight with herself to hear anything more.

"But I thought you were working on the assumption that he was taken from his apartment," says Jordan.

"We were," confirms Rachel, calmly. "But forensics found absolutely no signs of a struggle, no blood, no forced entry and Ryan pulled nothing from CCTV in the parking garage to show anyone other than a lone figure heading in the direction of the space Rick's car was parked. A lone figure that was definitely not Rick Castle, judging by his build and his gait."

"Why take Mr. Castle's car? Why not just steal one or rent one?" asks Danny Munro.

"Because he can? It wouldn't be reported stolen immediately if the guy who owns it isn't available to make the call. To taunt us or throw us off, send us on a wild goose chase through the Holland Tunnel. Who knows with this guy? I…I found a note in the transcripts from the original case file where Tyson said: "People think it's killing that I like, but murder's just an act. It's all about the anticipation, the planning..." quotes Rachel, "which fits exactly with this elaborate, sometimes bizarre behavior."

"And what makes you think Castle made it to the library?" asks Jordan.

"His notebook. In it he outlines the 'ah-ha' moment he had with the code. His handwriting is fast, scrawled, excitable. There are numerous underlings and exclamation points. _We_ only got as far a Dewey Decimal. But _he_ managed to tie it back to an actual selection of books, with page numbers and then specific line numbers on top of that. Knowing Rick, I don't believe that he'd be able to wait until I was free, and not just go there and test out his theory as soon as he came up with it. Kate, do you agree? Do you think he'd wait?" she asks Kate, who's still struggling to get past the words '_Knowing Rick_'. "Or do you think he'd be straight down there, desperate to lay his hands on those books and flip open the pages, until he had the whole message figured out?"

"She has a point," concedes Jordan, addressing Kate. "He does get pretty excited once he gets the bit between his teeth."

"Yeah," says Kate, softly, nodding her head. "Sounds like Castle."

"I've requested a warrant for the security cam footage outside the library the night he disappeared," adds Rachel. "He didn't answer my calls, but if he was already inside he'd have his phone on silent at most, possibly even turned off."

"Fifth is a pretty public location to snatch someone," highlights Ryan.

"But this is Jerry Tyson we're talking. Nothing is an obstacle to this guy," points out Esposito.

* * *

"Links between Tyson and the dead guy?" asks Kate, her heart racing at the thought of Castle being drugged or worse and then bundled into the back of his own car.

"I tracked him back to Elmira. He did five years for drug trafficking. And guess who he shared a cell with?" asks Rachel.

"Marcus Gates?" offers Kate, unable to hide her admiration for the woman's work, wishing she'd had a chance to work this case with Castle herself.

"_Bingo!_" says Rachel, giving her a friendly smile.

"What's Tyson's beef with the guy?"

"Seems he made Gates' life pretty unbearable on the inside. Tyson had a soft spot for his patsy and a very long memory."

"Okay, let's get on that footage the second it's in our hands, see if we can't prove Rachel's theory that Castle was already at the library the night he was taken. In the meantime, let's use Castle's handiwork to find out what message Tyson was trying to send via these book references. Rachel, work with Kate and Jordan on that," says Gates, staring down Agent Shaw, as the two do battle to establish the roles they will share in this circumstance.

* * *

Jordan corners Kate as they leave the conference room.

"Coffee?" she suggests, guiding her into the break room.

"So, how _were_ things with you and Castle?" she asks, without pausing to beat about the bush.

Jordan eschews the fancy coffee machine to busy herself with the glass flask of black coffee from the Bunn machine while she waits for Kate to reply.

"Last time I saw you, you said it was complicated. Things get any simpler?" she asks, looking over her shoulder.

Kate takes a deep breath and runs a hand through her hair, leaning back against the counter and crossing her arms.

"Simpler and then more complicated," she admits, smiling ruefully. "We…we were in a relationship. Had been for about a year, and then I got the job offer in D.C."

"Oh," whistles Jordan. "Yeah, I know how _that_ goes."

"Yeah, well, I didn't. I kept the interview a secret from him when I shouldn't have. Decided to take the job without consulting him first. But Castle is nothing if not unpredictable."

"What did he do this time?" asks Jordan, giving Kate a fond look.

"He proposed," says Kate, smiling at the memory.

"Of course he did," laughs Jordan, handing Kate a cup of coffee. "Congratulations. And you said…?"

"I didn't know what to say. I took the job without thinking things through, thought there was no way I could juggle both."

"Was the proposal his way of offering you some kind of ultimatum?"

"No. No, that's the thing. He wanted us to be together no matter what I decided about the job. I made a mess of things, panicked, asked for a break, left a couple of weeks later and I haven't seen or spoken to him since."

"I see," nods Jordan, with quiet understanding.

"What?"

"Things got a little too serious, so you ran," she accuses Kate, though without any malice.

"I just needed time to think, to focus on this new opportunity, give it my best shot and then…"

"And then?" prompts Jordan.

"Do you think it's possible?" asks Kate, looking directly at the FBI Agent.

"To have it all?"

"Yes," she says, with relief that this woman understands her dilemma.

"I think it's hard. But it can be done. My daughter gets annoyed with me sometimes when I have to be away from home and I miss a school play or a sports day. Guilt is my one constant companion. But if you want to be a rounded person, to live a full life, to be about more than just your job description, and above all, if you love him, Kate, then I think it's essential to try."

"That's what I thought you might say."

"I'm not saying it's easy. Because it isn't. You will have days when you feel like you're drowning in compromise. But Castle is clearly devoted to you. The hours he's spent in here, the way he followed you around, couldn't take his eyes off you even back then. If anyone can fit around your career, it's that guy."

"Now I'm back, I'm beginning to wonder if I've left it too late," says Kate, tracking Rachel McCord through the glass, as the female detective walks across the bullpen.

"You mean the ice-maiden out there?" smirks Jordan, lifting her cup to her lips.

"Mmm," hums Kate, finishing her coffee.

"You're kidding, right? Did they teach you nothing down in D.C.?"

"She's clearly spent a lot of time with him while I've been gone. She's been to his home, met his daughter, his mother…" she sighs, hating how weak and jealous and whiny she sounds.

"Kate, I thought you were a better detective than that. Stop letting emotion cloud your judgment and look at what's in front of you. There is more chance of Rachel McCord coming onto _you _than Richard Castle. So, lets just stay focused on getting your boyfriend back. My money's been on you guys from the start. No way am I letting Jerry Tyson rob me of a happy ending," she says, hopping down off her stool and carrying their empty cups over to the sink, leaving a stunned Kate Beckett in her wake.

* * *

_**NOTE:**_ *LEOSA stands for the Law Enforcement Officer's Safety Act. A United States federal law, enacted in 2004, that allows two classes of persons—the "qualified law enforcement officer" and the "qualified retired law enforcement officer"—to carry a concealed firearm in any jurisdiction in the United States, regardless of state or local laws, so long as they carry photographic I.D. from the Agency they most recently worked for, along with proof, updated within the last twelve months, showing that they have met the active duty standards for qualification in firearms training, as established by the State, to carry a firearm of the same type as the concealed firearm they intend to carry.

Many thanks to 'fbobs' for the background on this one.

* * *

_A/N: Hope you're still with me guys. Happy Friday. Liv :)_


	7. Chapter 7 - In The Darkest Hours

_A/N: This opening quotation contains so much truth..._

* * *

"_Writing is a form of therapy; sometimes I wonder how all those who do not write, compose or paint can manage to escape the madness, melancholia, the panic and fear which is inherent in a human situation."_

_**- Graham Greene**_

* * *

_**Chapter 7: In The Darkest Hours**_

The cast iron radiator, the too-thick, too-solid brick walls…the gag. They're all conspiring against him.

His back and knees are killing him, stuck here on the hard floor, his wrist shackled to the ancient pipework, installed when things were built to last forever. The blood has dried on his wrist. He has long given up on the yanking, yelling and cursing he attempted in the beginning hours of his ordeal - when he came round, drugged again, shackled again, only this time without the tiger _or_ his beloved partner.

_Kate._

* * *

His chest aches when he thinks about her, and about how Tyson taunts him with reminders of her.

He was barely clinging to hope these last couple of months since she left - one week rolling into the next, no reply to his letters, no texts, calls or visits. Just a deathly silence he hopes means she's focusing on the job, as she promised to, that given time she'll figure everything out, manage to fit all the pieces together so that they can have a chance at something.

His one consolation was that she agreed to take the ring. She's not a mercenary woman, not in the slightest, felt distinctly uncomfortable at the thought of him treating her to more than dinner, a trip away or small gifts. She doesn't want a whole new wardrobe, an Imelda Marcos size shoe collection – she's doing pretty well on both counts all by herself. She wouldn't hear of him paying her rent while she's gone, and in retrospect, perhaps he should have insisted harder so she had somewhere of her own to come back to, so there wasn't this...

But she agreed to take the ring, and since this is Kate Beckett, the meaning behind that acquiescence is powerful, symbolic, hopeful, emotional…maybe even a kind of promise.

He offered to book air tickets so that she could visit her dad, just to know that she was in the same city, breathing the same super-heated, pretzel-scented, steamy hot air a couple of days a month. But…_no._ She wanted to do it all on her own. Make a niche for herself in Washington, find her feet with the job, prove herself worthy of the faith and investment the Attorney General's office was showing in her professional skills, and all without any distractions. But he could tell that she needed to deal with her evident, poorly-hidden heartbreak too, in the exact same way she always has – by throwing herself into the job, making every day count, working with facts instead of emotions.

Think it out. Figure it out. Work it out.

* * *

Sometimes he thinks that Tyson may have done him a favor: pulled him out of his self-pitying depression by casting him at the center of this horror show. And then he wonders if maybe he's delirious. Water is rationed, food even more so. Surely it's too soon to be succumbing to Stockholm syndrome?

He looks at the far wall, tries to tell the time from the small amount of light leaking under the door. But it's pretty much impossible. The faucet drips, the gag is damp through with his own saliva, the sides of his mouth feel raw where the soggy fabric chafes, and he's pretty sure he smells by now.

He thinks of a quote by Bernard Kelvin Clive*: _"Your mind can be either your prison or your palace. What you make it is yours to decide."_

He decides on _palace_ as often as he can, though it takes a mammoth force of will that drains him.

_Prison_ is the place he ends up in his darkest hours; when he is weak, his reserves of hope low, his faith in her waning, and Tyson's taunts chipping away at his own self-believe and his belief in her and them.

But for now, it is to his palace that he returns. The place where he goes when he feels optimistic, remembers who _he_ is and who _they _are together. He vows to see her the very first chance he gets, to sit her down and make her listen, make her hear him out until he is empty and every last argument he can think to make is laid out in front of her. He has to go all in with this, more all in than he has so far, and he's pretty far in already. But he realizes now, after hours spent alone like a monk in solitary contemplation, that the proposal may have seemed hasty, perfunctory, anguished even, and he understands her need to do this for herself: to push and stretch herself professionally, now that the initial driver in her quest for justice - her mother's case - is tapered, lessened, slaked, at least a little.

* * *

He reruns every word, every exchange he can remember, through his mind, analyzing and dissecting each with the dispassionate objectivity of a judge. Time and again he comes up with the same answer – that he doesn't believe this should have been an all or nothing choice for them.

The more he looks back, the faster he realizes that he failed her before she left – the sullen silences, his petulance, the hurt he let get the better of him - none of it helpful to either of them. None of it guiding them to a place where they could both have it all.

What use four years of careful holding back, never over-stepping, skirting boundaries as if a live minefield kept them apart, if they are to fail over something as mundane as a job and who lives where? They are about more than life's mundane choices, surely? This love they have developed for one another, the depth and intensity of their shared experience, their unique mystery: all too special to be sacrificed on the altar of ordinary things.

They both have faults, and together these magnify into a burning focal point, conspiring to create this spectacular inability to communicate that they encounter time and again. And it's a failure that could cost them a life together if one or other of them neglects to take the bull by the horns and just say it: speak the words out loud. Express their fears and insecurities, their wants, needs, desires and dreams – no matter how selfish or weak, needy or desperate they sound. Because nothing could be worse than this – both of them miserable, he strongly suspects, when neither needs to be. A life spent apart reeks of madness, when support and comfort, laughter and touching, and a thousand whispered secrets in the dark could be theirs again for the sharing.

* * *

He listens once more for any sound. But all he hears is silence and the constant drip, drip, drip. Like a man in a desert faced with a watery mirage, the running faucet is of no used to him if he cannot reach it, so it taunts him as sure as if Tyson had rigged the leak himself.

He expects another visit soon, quickly realized that he is of no use to his captor if he dies of thirst or hunger. So food and water will come, and come faster if he stays calm, retreats inside his mind, focuses on happier things.

He finds that memories hurt too much. They pain him. But planning, imagining and creating a future for them – _that_ he can cope with. He is an architect, a man of detail, his dreams laid out with meticulous clarity, a life that exists within, but also extends far beyond, these walls. Like the plot of one of his novels, he plans whole conversations with her, formulates arguments worthy of the best defense counsel. He knows he shouldn't have to work this hard if there is love, and he is hurting. But they are different people, come from different perspectives, driven by life-experience, family, education, even their male-female differences play a part in how their future is viewed and shaped.

She is independent, stubborn, focused, disciplined, career-driven, intellectual, and a free spirit when she allows herself to be. He sits on the floor reminding himself that these are the qualities he fell in love with, that they make her who she is. He cannot resent her for any of her choices, and he cannot change her, should not even attempt to try. He can merely offer her the opportunity to have everything he believes she wants out of life, and in doing so find happiness and fulfillment for himself at a stroke. He can merely offer her himself and hope: hope that that will be enough.

He is gaining strength, burning with fierce optimism, relishes the chance to try again. He is a brave man, getting braver by the second, driven forward by a deep and undimmed love, if only he can have that second chance.

* * *

The sharp click of a lock tells him that it's time. His rational brain fears, as much as it counsels calm, faith, belief that he needs you more alive than dead.

But still a part of him fears, and with good reason. It would be madness to underestimate the darkness of Tyson's mind, the depths of his jealousy or his capacity for resurrection when driven on by blind hatred and the need to seek and destroy.

The door handle twists with a piercing, rusty screech and Castle tenses every sinew, his snatched breath held…

* * *

_A/N: *Bernard Kelvin Clive is a motivational speaker and author of 'Your Dreams Will Not Die', from where this quote was taken. Liv_


	8. Chapter 8 - Relentless

_A/N: Many thanks for your continued interest in this story. I appreciate every review._

* * *

_"Salvation sounds a new beginning  
As distant hearts begin believing  
Redemption's bid is unrelenting  
Your love goes on  
Your love goes on"_

_**- Hillsong United**, 'Relentless'_

* * *

_**Chapter 8: Relentless**_

"Run it again."

"It's not in there. In any of them. I'm telling you. I've checked three times already."

"_Run. It. Again,_" she insists, standing her ground, her hands planted firmly on her hips.

"Beckett, you knew we were most likely dealing with an alias," interjects Esposito, trying to reason with her.

"Move out of the way," says Kate, taking the weary FBI tech's spot in front of the computer. "ViCAP, DMV, CJIS, DOC search…"

"_Google?_" suggests Jordan Shaw, dryly, appearing behind her with a cup of coffee and placing it down on the desk by Kate's hand.

She could weep with gratitude. Doesn't know if the woman was simply making coffee for herself or if she remembers this being Castle's main contribution way back when and she's trying to ease her burden.

"Google? Why not? It's worth a shot," shrugs Kate, a desperate bloody-mindedness firing her relentless push onwards in the face of so many blanks drawn.

She opens a new browser window.

"I was kidding," says Jordan, perching on the edge of the desk beside her to drink her own coffee and watch nevertheless.

"Yeah, well…stranger things," murmurs Kate, typing furiously. "Felix Lepanthes where are you?" she mutters to herself.

"Nada," says Esposito, leaning over her shoulder to read the search results.

"Whoa! Whoa! Not so fast," interrupts Jordan. "Look. Scroll down. Look at that. Reverse the names," she says, pointing further down the screen. "Ring any bells?"

"Lepanthes, Felix," Kate reads aloud, "also known as 'El Gato'."

"The cat?" chips in Esposito. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

"Jewels of the orchid world," reads Kate. "Dammit! It means we've just been played again," says Kate, thumping her fist down on the desk.

"He's consistent. I'll give him that," notes Jordan, as they stare at a photograph of a small reddish-brown orchid flower with a yellow face and bright green stamen, botanical name - Lepanthes Felix.

"It's as if he's stalking us. That's what the cat part means. Toying with us like we're some…some helpless, clueless little mice."

* * *

Kate pushes two hands through her hair and leans back in the chair, exhausted.

"Or he's communicating a message," pipes up Rachel, from Kate's old desk as few feet behind them.

"What message?" asks Kate, taking a deep breath and swiveling round in her chair.

"Well, if I were to hazard a guess…"

"Hazard away," says Jordan Shaw, dryly.

"I'd say he's speaking to you through the language of flowers."

"The language of flowers?" asks Esposito. "What in the hell is that?"

"A very old cryptological means of communication, where certain flowers or arrangements of flowers were sent to someone to convey a specific message, often in secret. It used to be known as floriography. It's thousands of years old."

"You know who she sounds like?" says Jordon, turning to address Kate.

Kate knows exactly who she sounds like, but she doesn't even want to think about why that might be.

"_So_…orchids. What's the meaning behind those?" asks Esposito.

"Orchids have their Latin botanical name, like all flowers, and a common name too. We know the first flower delivery he sent you was called 'The Widow Orchid'. That message seems pretty clear in retrospect."

"And his pseudonym is El Gato, the cat, right? We got that, but why orchids?"

"Orchids as a flower group represent love, beauty and refinement. I think he might be making some kind of comment or reference to you, Kate, specifically, and also to your relationship with Rick."

Kate feels her face heating up and has an urgent desire to leave her seat.

"I'd rather keep my relationship out of—"

"Too late, Kate," interjects Jordan. "Looks like maybe you two _are_ this case."

Kate looks at Jordan, her eyes pleading.

"Can I have a word in private?" she eventually asks.

* * *

The two head into the empty break room.

"You're the only one I've told about Castle's proposal. The widow orchid thing…? I thought I could brush it off as nothing. Just a bad coincidence. A morbid choice of bloom given Tyson's sick sense of humor."

"You think Castle hasn't shared a thing or two with little Miss Know-It-All out there?" asks Jordan, staring through the blinds at Rachel McCord, who's now frantically typing on her computer keyboard.

"I…I thought you said she liked girls?" asks Kate, looking worried.

"She does. Doesn't mean she doesn't appreciate boys too, _and_ it makes her a better listener, more approachable, a better confidant for a lonely, confused guy like Castle. Since she comes across as unthreatening, not out to seduce him in anyway."

"So you think she knows about the proposal?" asks Kate.

"I would _not_ be surprised."

"I thought he'd keep it to himself," muses Kate, quietly, almost disappointed.

"You said you haven't spoken to him since you left. Did you really think he'd just sit around twiddling his thumbs in a dark room while you went out and saved the world?"

"Don't. Please?" says Kate, shaking her head. "I _know_ how stupid and selfish and…and cowardly I've been with all of this. I just need a chance to put it right, and the only way…the _only_ way I get to do that is if we find him alive. Help me do that, please?"

* * *

Jordan barely pauses, just thinks for s second.

"We need to find Tyson. Find out where he's been hiding himself since Castle shot him. He seems to know an awful lot about you two, about how close you are, if he's taking such a personal interest in your relationship now."

"Should I tell the others?"

"That is entirely up to you. It's not strictly germane to the resolution of the case. If you feel you want to share…share away. But they won't hear it from me."

"Thanks. I appreciate your discretion."

"Don't thank me, Kate. Just figure out how you're going to fix this. Richard Castle may be many annoying things, but he's also a good, honest man who doesn't deserve to be messed around."

"I know. You're right. I think even Jerry Tyson might agree with you there."

"Didn't his past case history spiral from his mommy issues?" asks Jordan, a light dawning in her eyes.

"Uh…yeah. He blamed his mother for never really wanting him as a kid, for his ruined childhood. He felt abandoned and badly let down when she died and he was put into foster care."

"And from what I remember of his killing spree, all of his female victims bore a resemblance to his mother?"

"That's right. He targeted surrogates, blond lookalikes, punished these proxies by strangling them."

"Nice."

"The intimate manner of death allowed him to get close to these women, to touch them, see the fear in their eyes as he punished them. He could feel them struggle under his hands as he choked them to death. But it was clear he still loved her, his mother, from the way he posed the bodies after death. Their hands clasped, faces made to look as if they were sleeping. He took great care over everything."

"So, if he was punishing by proxy and yet still seeking out a little of the perfect family life he missed out on as a child, it's not such a big leap to assume that he'd view your relationship with Castle in the same light, right?"

"As perfect?" frowns Kate.

"Yeah, or as near as."

"_So_…you think he's punishing us now?"

"You are definitely on his radar. He could well idolize your relationship and hate you for it in equal measure."

"That would mean he's been watching us?" says Kate, chilled again.

"Look at the lengths he went to to entrap Castle the last time. He clearly hates the guy and yet fixates on him too, on what he has."

"And that would include me, I suppose. If he was watching…we were practically living together before I left," she admits.

"Oh, Kate," sighs Jordan, shaking her head on hearing that they were so committed right before Kate walked away. "So maybe from Tyson's limited viewpoint he saw only one thing: that you were living together, close to the happy ever after, and then you rejected Castle, abandoned him when you left town and…"

"Ruined his perfect?"

"Pretty much. It's a theory to work off in any case."

"It would explain why he wanted to lure me back here. Maybe he wants us back together so that he can have one of us watch while he makes the other suffer?" she says, hating her own suggestion even as she makes it.

"That being the case, where would he be hiding out?" muses Jordan. "Someplace quiet, obviously. Secure, private, soundproofed, maybe…?"

"Empty property. Abandoned building perhaps? Or…or a basement?" offers Kate.

"I'm betting local. He wouldn't want to travel too far while he orchestras this little drama he's setting up. Seems he gets his kicks from watching people struggle and he'd need to make frequent visits to keep Castle alive."

"So, we're thinking Manhattan or maybe Queens or New Jersey, given the escape route into the Holland Tunnel the night Castle went missing."

"Unless that was a decoy, meant to fool us."

"We need to find that car," says Kate, touching Jordan's arm and leading her back out into the bullpen.

* * *

"Any word on traffic cam footage of Castle's Mercedes?" asks Jordan, addressing the tech specialist FBI Agent.

"Nothing so far, boss. We're widening the net. He goes into that tunnel and then becomes a ghost."

"What if he went into the tunnel but didn't come out again?" pipes up Rachel McCord.

"How is that even possible?" asks Ryan.

"Did anyone check traffic reports that night? Collisions? Fatalities?" Rachel asks.

Kate swallows hard, does not want to think of Castle's car crashing inside the Holland Tunnel with him inside.

"I'll call D.O.T.," offers Ryan, hurrying back to his desk to make the call.

"I'll take Port Authority," says Esposito.

"I've got a call into Traffic," adds Rachel, the phone's receiver already cradled between her shoulder and her ear.

"She seem to be the one with all the answers, to you?" Jordan quietly asks Kate, watching Rachel McCord through narrowed eyes.

"I thought it was just me being…"

Kate pauses, pursing her lips, and then she shrugs.

"Jealous?" prompts Jordan, crossing her arms.

"Were you always this blunt?" asks Kate, giving Jordan a slightly amused look.

"Yes. Only I reserved my wit for your partner last time we met. He deserved it. You didn't."

"Only now it's the other way around," replies Kate, nodding.

"You said it," retorts Jordan, nudging Kate's shoulder and walking away.

* * *

"Got it!" yells Esposito, crashing the receiver down with a loud clatter.

"What?" asks Kate hurrying over, accompanied by Jordan Shaw.

"The night Castle disappeared, a car matching the description of his Mercedes was involved in an accident mid-way through the Jersey-bound section of the tunnel. It closed off the right-hand lane for a couple of hours while they recovered the two vehicles and cleared a fuel spill off the road."

"Anyone hurt in the collision?" asks Kate, anxiously.

"Nope. Passing drivers reported seeing a man hurrying from the scene along the pedestrian catwalk on the side of the tunnel. The car was simply abandoned, keys still inside."

"Where is it now?" asks Jordan.

Rachel McCord raises her hand as she hangs up her own call.

"Found it. Police impound in Hell's Kitchen. Pier 76 at West 38th and 12th."

"Feel like taking a ride, Beckett?" asks Jordan, giving Kate a crooked smile.

"I'll get my purse," replies Kate, feeling as if they might finally be getting somewhere.

* * *

_A/N: And on we go... Liv._


	9. Chapter 9 - Waiting For The Other Shoe

_A/N: Another quick update to keep the story moving along..._

* * *

_"Shell at my ear -_

_come share how I hear_

_busy old sea in whispers._

_Moans rise from ancient depths_

_in ocean sighs_

_like crowds of ghost monsters._

_Waves lash and fall -_

_in roars and squalls_

_with all a mystery ahhh!"_

_**- James Berry,** Seashell_

* * *

_**Chapter 9: Waiting For The Other Shoe**_

The car is a mangled wreck. Sitting lopsided in the corner of the NYPD impound lot, the front off-side wheel collapsed inwards due to a failure of the hub assembly during the crash, the silver Mercedes-Benz looks distinctly worse for wear. The hood has concertinaed like a piece of aluminum foil, the side panel rippled, dented and deeply scored where the paint has been lifted clean off, and the license plate is missing.

"Damage is mostly superficial," a laidback mechanic informs them, rubbing his hands on a dirty rag as he approaches. "Looks a lot worse than it is. Crumple zone did its job. Just caved right in."

Both front airbags have been deployed and this fact makes Kate nervous. They dangle pathetically from the steering wheel and dash panel, like sagging white balloons left behind after a kids' party. She is relieved to see no evidence of blood on either flaccid piece of fabric.

"Doesn't there have to be someone sitting in the passenger seat for the airbag to deploy?" she asks the police mechanic.

"Usually. But put a heavy load on the front seat and it can trigger the seat occupancy sensor."

"Even without the seatbelt in use?" asks Jordan.

"Lady, I've seen airbags inflate on crash impact alone. Especially when the dashboard is forced this far back. Sharp deceleration and anything over 15mph will do it."

"So, it's perfectly possible there was no one other than the driver in this car when it crashed? And that's Special Agent Lady to you," adds Jordan, with typical dry humor.

"Apologies, ma'am. My mistake. Yep, driver could have been flying solo."

"Did you check the trunk?" asks Kate, circling the vehicle, a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.

* * *

She remembers the last time they drove out to the Hamptons in this car, the week before she left. They were both so miserable, so lost inside their own heads that they gave up trying to pretend to enjoy themselves out at the beach house and came home early; their predicament somehow made worse by the natural beauty of their surroundings. She moved out of the loft right after they got back, never making a bigger mistake in her life.

"We've got a bit of a back-up in case you hadn't noticed," he says, pointing to a half-dozen other cars still waiting to be processed. "Haven't even recorded the VIN number on this one," he tells Kate, tapping the roof of the car.

"The trunk," repeats Kate, with more determination in her tone.

"Keys went missing after the car was brought in," explains the mechanic, as if this is a reasonable explanation for doing nothing.

"_What?_ Why weren't they sealed and vouchered at the scene?"

"Bang goes any hope of prints," says Jordan, pursing her lips.

The man shrugs and Kate glares back, impatiently tapping her foot.

"I'll…I'll just go grab a set of jigglers," he says, realizing that she doesn't plan on going anywhere, before changing his mind and yelling to a coworker to bring him the set of auto lock picks.

* * *

Kate holds her breath while he works the lock to pop the truck. But when the lid springs open, it seems there's nothing more than the usual detritus inside, no body at least or bloodstains, and she breathes out again.

There's a navy windbreaker jacket of Castle's folded into a tight bundle and she has to fight the urge to pick it up, hold it to her face and sniff it. A pair of flip-flops that could well be Alexis' have been slipped together in one corner, and a fine layer of white sand coats the dark grey carpeting in the base of the trunk. When she spots the clear plastic baggie Castle used to collect shells on their last trip to the beach, she has to hold back a whimper. Most of the seashells are now broken or crushed. What a metaphor.

One of the larger shells - a scallop shell with a thick, white, calcium bicarbonate center, thinning to a sharp, brown fluted edge - is lying near the front of the trunk. One corner has been broken off.

"What's this?" asks Jordan, brushing past her, pulling a small flashlight out of her pocket and training it on the underside of the truck lid.

"Scratches?" asks Kate, peering in beside her, head tilted to one side.

Kate pulls on a glove and traces the markings with the tip of one latex-covered finger.

"Oh, God," she whispers, pulling back to look at Jordan Shaw. "He was in here. Castle was inside this trunk."

"What does it say?"

"I…" Kate shakes her head, squinting her eyes to read. "Looks like just one word. He wrote '_Tyson_'."

She forces the words past her lips and then clamps her hand over her mouth.

Jordan touches her shoulder and pulls out her phone.

"Danny, get CSU down here. We need Castle's car processed asap. And I don't want to hear any B.S. about there being a backlog. Get someone on it _now_. He was here and the trail is going cold."

* * *

"Looks like he used this shell to scratch out Tyson's name. It's sharp enough," points out Kate, lifting up the scallop shell by the footed hinge. "But why no more than that?" she muses, disappointed the message is so minimal.

"Perhaps the car ride was short, or he only thought of writing something late on?" suggests Jordan, with some optimism.

"No, this is Castle. He's all about the Boy Scout stuff," reminds Kate. "Last time we were in the Hamptons, he found a beer bottle lying on the beach. You know what he did with it?"

"Recycled, I hope," mutters Jordan.

"Nope, not Rick. Not creative enough. No, he found an old sales receipt in the pocket of his shorts, scribbled a note on it with a stick he found half-turned to charcoal in a beach campfire, and then he put it inside the bottle, stoppered it with a washed-up piece of rubber and hurled it out to sea. He has a good arm too," says Kate, quietly, remembering the care he took over every little aspect of the message in a bottle, remembering how she thought he'd make a great dad to their kids one day, all the things he could teach them.

"What did he put on the note?" asks Jordan, genuinely curious now.

"Eh…his email address," laughs Kate, turning away to hide the tears in her eyes. "Such a dork."

"We have to face facts, Kate. Tyson's good, devious, a meticulous planner. But Castle's a big guy. So maybe that message was short because he was drugged or bound," admits Jordan.

"Looks like he used this to cushion his head," says Kate, pointing to the folded navy jacket and biting her lip, trying to ignore Jordan's words.

Though she knows there's a high possibility that the FBI profiler is right, she doesn't want to think of him harmed or hurting in any way…other than the hurt she herself has already caused him.

"Come on. We've got a timeline to revise," says Jordan, quietly, walking away towards their car.

* * *

Back at the Precinct activity levels seem to have stepped up. There's a buzz about the place: people moving around from desk to printer to file cabinet and back. Phones are ringing and the energy is high.

"Warrant came good. We got a download of the footage from the library on Fifth," says Danny Munro, the second they walk in.

He and Ryan have been reviewing it, and an image is stilled on the FBI tech's laptop, awaiting their arrival.

"What have we got?" asks Jordan, perching on the edge of the desk.

"Tell me there's _some__thing?_" adds Kate, betraying her angst.

"Security cam footage from the library shows Castle entering at 5.15pm. He comes back out just before six. Does he smoke?" the agent asks Kate.

"No," she shakes her head. "He was probably going outside to make a call," she suggests, realizing with a sinking heart that there was more chance of that call being to Rachel McCord than to her.

"We lose sight of him once he goes down the front steps," says Danny, pointing to the action on the screen. "But that'd be plenty of time for Tyson to snatch him, stash him somewhere close by and then drive through the tunnel at 7.05pm where he crashed the car, either by accident or on purpose."

"It's looking more like on purpose," adds Jordan.

"So, Castle is still in Manhattan," says Kate, hopefully.

"Fits with the short message. Tyson grabs him at the library, takes him somewhere close, somewhere empty and secure. Then disposes of the car, after making sure we see him at the wheel. Son of a bitch," says Jordan, shaking her head.

"Anyone else feel like we're waiting for the other shoe to drop?" asks Kate, looking at Ryan, not even attempting to hide the worry in her eyes.

* * *

The phone rings at Rachel McCord's desk and she answers, speaks briefly and then puts it back down.

"Kate?" she says, rising from her chair.

"Mmm?" asks Kate, whirling around at the tone in the Detective's voice.

"That was Martha. There's been another delivery."

"A—?" halts Kate, startling as Esposito pops out of his seat and yells.

"_Bam!_ Just got some action on one of Castle's credit cards. Sixty dollar charge at a florist on Lafayette. Blue Water Flowers."

"Kate, you and I will go and see Martha. Ryan and Esposito take the florist. Find out everything you can about that order. Who placed it, how long ago, how the payment was made, you know the drill. Call me as soon as you have anything. Danny, keep tracking that credit card. He's taking risks, staying local. We just need for him to trip up now, get just a little too arrogant or a little impatient to be on with the game."

"Well, he's got my full attention," says Kate, preparing to leave.

"Yeah, I think maybe that other shoe just dropped."

* * *

_A/N: Love hearing your thoughts. Liv_


	10. Chapter 10 - Searching For Answers

_A/N: I'd like to dedicate this chapter to the very special msTGR whose birthday it is on Saturday. Feliz Aniversário, my dear! Have a wonderful day. BJ's! xxx_

_And now onwards with the story..._

* * *

_"The night above. We two. Full moon. _

_I started to weep, you laughed. _

_Your scorn was a god, my laments _

_moments and doves in a chain. _

_The night below. We two. Crystal of pain. _

_You wept over great distances. _

_My ache was a clutch of agonies _

_over your sickly heart of sand. _

_Dawn married us on the bed, _

_our mouths to the frozen spout _

_of unstaunched blood. _

_The sun came through the shuttered balcony _

_and the coral of life opened its branches _

___over my shrouded heart."_  


_**- Federico Gar****c****í****a**** Lorca**, 'Night of Sleepless Love'_

* * *

_**Chapter 10: Searching For Answers**_

Martha has the door open before the elevator even arrives at Castle's floor.

"Katherine? Oh, thank god," she says, when Kate emerges into the hallway, her face etched with worry that makes her look older and more fragile than usual.

"Martha, this is Special Agent Jordan Shaw of the FBI. She's leading the investigation into Rick's disappearance. We worked together on big a case a few years back, so she knows Rick already."

"Mrs. Rodgers it's a pleasure to meet you. We're doing everything we can to find your son," Jordan assures her, shaking Martha's hand.

"Thank you, Agent Shaw."

"Please, call me Jordan."

"Then I insist on Martha. No need to feel any older than all this terrible situation is making me feel already," she adds, going for her trademark droll humor and falling slightly short.

"You said there was another delivery," prompts Kate, leading the way into the loft. "We spoke to Mr. Manovich downstairs. He confirmed a messenger from the florist made the delivery, so no leads there I'm afraid. The boys are following up on the florist store angle. It looks like Tyson used Castle's credit card to make the purchase." Kate advises Castle's mother. "We have a trace on his account. Best to leave it live for now so we can track any future activity."

* * *

"Over on the counter, dear," says Martha, closing the front door and following them to the kitchen. "I called as soon as the delivery man brought it up."

Sitting on the counter is yet another orchid, also presented in a plain white pot. The plant stands about twenty centimeters tall with a thick tuber at the base from where a basal rosette with four lance-shaped apple-green leaves extend. A cascade of around thirty small, bright yellow, stemless flowers tumble from a central flower spike. If the reason for its arrival weren't so sinister, the orchid would look delicate and pretty.

Kate turns the pot around with gloved hands. Then she carefully extracts the plant's care instructions, which are printed on a flexible plastic card that has been wedged into the side of the pot.

"_Aceras anthropophora_," she reads, before glancing up at Jordan, more than she's just said lingering in her eyes.

"_And?_" nods Jordan, waiting for more. "Anything else?"

"Common name: 'The Hanged-Man Orchid'," reads Kate, reluctantly, licking her dry lips.

The two women try to hide their reactions from Martha. But Kate isn't fast enough to turn away and Martha's hand is instantly on her arm.

"What is it?" she asks, turning Kate back round to face her.

"No. It's…it's nothing," she says, shaking her head and giving Martha a weak smile.

"_Katherine_?" says Martha, her voice strong, filled with a quiet, seeking determination.

Kate sighs resignedly.

"We think he's trying to send a message with these flowers," she finally admits, before quickly adding. "But this guy likes drama, Martha, so I wouldn't read too much into—"

"What does it say? _Tell me_," she insists.

"The first one was called 'The Widow Orchid'. This one is known as 'The Hanged-Man'. But, Martha—"

"He's going to kill Richard, isn't he?" she exclaims, covering her mouth with one bony, bejeweled hand.

"Martha," says Jordan, quietly, taking over, as Kate gives up and takes a step back, "listen to me. Your son is worth _nothing_ to this man dead. We think he's trying to lure Kate by sending these messages. He needs them both alive for whatever he has planned. But don't worry. We _will_ find him before this thing goes too far."

"_Too far?_ He has my _son!_" exclaims Martha, finally losing her composure and getting upset.

"And we will find him," repeats Jordan, calmly.

"Can I have that in writing? Because if I know anything about the government, you'll tell me no. There _are_ no guarantees, Agent Shaw. I've seen enough of what they do to know the risks," says Martha, waving a hand in Kate's direction. "And I know the evil this man Tyson is capable of, saw what he tried to do to Richard the last time he entered our lives."

"We're doing our best. You have my word," says Jordan, patting Martha's arm. "Kate, get some sleep. I'll turn this in to CSU when I get back to the Precinct," she says, depositing the plant in a box, though they both know it's a formality and they're likely to find the square root of nothing.

* * *

"Don't you want to read the note?" asks Martha, and both women whirl back round.

"There's a note? Why didn't you say?" asks Kate.

"And you call yourselves detectives," says Martha, shaking her head as she points to the small, white envelope sitting on the counter.

On the back is written Kate's name and she opens the flap and slides the little card out. The message is written in a deep, dark red.

"Is that…_blood?_" asks Martha, leaning in closer.

"I hope not," croaks Kate, turning the card over to check the other side, which is printed with the florists name and address. "I'll have CSU analyze it."

"'_Where there is love there is life',_" reads Jordan, carefully handling the card by its edges. "Where have I heard that before?"

"Castle would know," says Kate automatically, glancing at Martha, who takes her hand when their eyes meet, giving it a squeeze of encouragement, solidarity and support.

"Well, until we can ask him, how about we try Mr. Google again?" suggests Jordan, shrugging. "It worked last time."

* * *

Kate sets up her laptop in the living room, while Martha busies herself in the kitchen making tea. She watches Jordan attempt to subtly look around the loft without drawing attention to herself.

"Nice place," she eventually says, her tone appreciative, when she realizes that Kate has caught her looking. "Not at all what I would have expected from…" she halts, filtering her thoughts for once.

"It's okay," says Kate, giving her a feeble smile. "I thought the exact same the first time I came here," she admits, looking around herself, seeing it afresh through someone else's eyes – since it's been home to her for most of the past year and she takes its beauty and style for granted now. "He has hidden depths, that's for sure. Just took me a while to realize," she adds, regretfully, turning her attention back to the computer screen.

"'_Where there is love there is life'_," reads Kate, running her eyes over the search results, as Jordan looks over her shoulder.

"He ripped off a quote from _Mahatma Gandhi_? What a creep," says Jordan, shaking her head.

"What do you make of it?" asks Kate, staring at the words.

"Beyond the obvious?"

"I'm…" Kate hesitates, wondering if she's too close to this, losing her edge, but she's unwilling to say so at the risk of getting taken off the case.

"_Bluntly?_ I think he's saying that if you can somehow _prove_ that you love Castle he stays alive. That would be my assessment. Where Gandhi fits in is anyone's guess. But this guy is more than a little deranged. We have to keep reminding ourselves of that fact. Not everything he does will makes sense."

"I guess it fits with your earlier theory."

"That he wants to reunite his perfect couple?"

"Yes, but then why the 'hanged-man'?" asks Kate, glancing at the yellow orchid sitting in the box by the door.

"If there is no love…?" says Jordan, shrugging when Kate fires a panicked glance in her direction.

"I just wish he'd let me know whatever it is he wants me to do and get it over with," she says, dropping her head into her hands for a brief second.

"I wouldn't rush things, Kate. We can be reasonably certain that he's keeping Castle alive right now. The denouement of whatever this is will take great care in its handling, preparation. Now, get some rest, like I said. He may begin ramping up his activities now that you're back and he has your full attention."

"Thanks, Jordan. This is…it's bringing a lot of thing into sharp relief, put it that way," confesses Kate.

"Maybe that's what you need right now. If we're looking for a bright spot in all of this? It's hard to keep the important things front of mind when you're being pulled in several different directions at once. But I find it's best not to make big decisions at moments of crisis, Kate. Count your blessing everyday in this job. Try hard to see what you have right in front of you, before it's too late. I'll pick you up at six. I can see myself out."

* * *

Kate goes back into the living room to find Martha sitting at the counter sipping her tea.

"How're you holding up?" she asks Kate, as she approaches.

"Been better. Been worse," she nods, rolling her head on her tired neck. "What about you? Sleep much last night?"

"Probably for about as long and as deeply as you did, my dear," sighs Martha.

"Where's Alexis?" asks Kate, glancing to the upper floor.

"In her room. Hasn't come out much today. I know you two spoke this morning."

"Uh, yeah," sighs Kate, looking at the floor. "If you could call it that."

"She loves her father. Is very protective of him. This whole situation is terrifying for all of us."

"I know that, Martha. And I don't blame her for a second. I'm the one at fault here."

"I know she hates fighting with you. Maybe you can talk to her? Make her understand?"

"I promised I would. Tonight. Do you think she's still awake?"

"Only one way to find out."

* * *

Kate taps on Alexis' door, two mugs of tea grasped in one hand.

"Who is it?"

"Alexis, it's Kate. Can I come in?" she asks, bracing herself for a negative response.

There is a brief pause and then the girl appears at the bedroom door, opening it by a couple of feet.

"I brought tea," offers Kate, holding out one of the mugs like a peace offering. "Can we talk?"

Alexis says nothing in reply, simply takes the mug of tea with a quiet murmur of thanks and backs away from the door. Kate hesitates on the threshold for a second or two and then follows her inside.

Alexis sits on the bed, up near the top, so Kate perches on the bottom corner, kicking off her shoes and crossing her legs.

"We're making some headway with the case," she offers up as an opener, after a few beats of awkward silence.

Alexis drinks her tea and watches silently while Kate pauses to see if she wants to know the details or not. When nothing is forthcoming, she plows on.

"We examined your dad's car today. He left us a message inside the trunk," she adds, watching a flicker of interested mixed with alarm cross Alexis' face. "Scratched it into the lid with a scallop shell. Ever resourceful," she finishes, with a small smile and a nod.

"Yeah," is all Alexis manages in return, looking down to pluck listlessly at the hem of her pajama pants.

"You don't want to know anymore? Because I can stop or…?"

"Was he held inside the trunk?" she asks, her face paler than usual.

Kate nods and then sips her tea.

"Yes, it looks that way. Though not for long. He had enough time to etch Tyson's name into the lid of the trunk. We have CCTV footage of your dad leaving the library, but we don't know where he went after that. We're working on the theory that Tyson lured or snatched him off the street, drove him someplace local where he's holding him, and then entered the Holland Tunnel about an hour later where he crashed the Mercedes."

"Was he injured?" she asks flatly, though there's a hint of hope there.

"Doesn't look like it. We think the crash was probably a deliberate act designed to throw us off his scent, make us think he'd left Manhattan. A man was seen walking away from the scene of the crash along the pedestrian catwalk inside the tunnel. There was no sign of blood inside the car. Forensics are examining it for further evidence right now."

"How can you be sure that my dad is still alive?" she asks, her voice getting smaller by the minute.

"We can't be sure of anything, Alexis. You know that. But our best guess is—"

"Your best _guess?_" she spits, startling Kate, who spills tea onto her jeans. She tries to ignore the sharp burn of the liquid to keep her focus on Alexis.

"Based on what we already know of Jerry Tyson," continues Kate calmly, trying not to let the girl see her own inner turmoil, her own ugly fears that swirl just below the surface every minute of the day, "he has a game plan. We think his plan involves bringing your father and I together again. What happens after that…we're not sure yet."

"Looks like he's having more luck than dad did at getting you to stick around," says Alexis, her tone laced with sarcasm.

Kate takes the rebuke like a slap in the face but doesn't back down.

* * *

"When Ashley left to go to Stanford, did you hate him for going?" asks Kate, watching as Alexis' eyes shoot up from the comforter to stare at her. "Did you resent his choice? Want him to give up his dreams for you?"

"That was different, we were young. You and my dad…"

"_Aren't_?" asks Kate, grinning at Alexis' discomfort.

"No, I meant that you and my dad were…" She shakes her head, tears of frustration, hurt and humiliation rising in her eyes. "You were supposed to be in love. He _proposed_ to you. Did that not mean _anything_?"

"Of course it did," replies Kate, softly, pressing her hand to her chest. She feels the two rings hanging between her breasts, giving her courage, and she decides to go all in. "I didn't say no, Alexis. I needed time to figure things out. I only want to be married once, and if I marry anyone it will be your dad…if he'll still have me," she adds quietly, removing the rings from under her shirt to let them swing in front of her t-shirt where Alexis can see them. "I love him so much, and being here has highlighted exactly what I turned my back on. I don't _have_ all the answers, Alexis. I'm human. I make mistakes. But I never stopped loving your dad. Maybe when you're older…"

"Please. Do _not_ patronize me," says Alexis, sharply, halting Kate.

"I'm sorry. That was wrong of me. All I meant to say is that balancing your own needs, your professional needs, with that of another human being, while trying to be fair to everyone is hard. Merging two lives? It's really difficult. And I'm not doing a very good job of it right now. But I'm trying to be better. I promise."

"Don't promise me. Do it for him. He's the one who deserves it, after all he went through to be with you."

Kate feels her face flush at the sharp reproof, but she can't argue back, since Alexis is right.

"I'm here if you want to talk…about anything. Or if you want to ask me about the case. You can call me anytime," she offers, rising from the bed in preparation to leave the room. "Try to get some sleep."

"_Do_ you think he's still alive?" Alexis asks, just as she reaches the door, the need to be consoled and reassured written all over her face, as much as she wants to ask nothing of Kate right now.

Kate pauses to consider her answer.

"I _feel_ as if he is, yes," she says honestly, her hand pressed over her scar again, the silver chain tangled around her fingers. "Your dad would probably laugh at me for even saying that. But, yes, that is my sense: that he's out there, somewhere close by, just waiting for us to find him."

* * *

The padlock is unlocked, the hasp grating as it's peeled back, and then he enters, gun in one hand, a small tray in the other.

"So, I bring big news. Your girlfriend is back in town," says Tyson, gleefully, sliding the tray, containing a takeout box of rapidly cooling Singapore noodles, across the floor towards Castle. A wooden fork is stuck inside the stodgy box of food, standing to attention.

He leans down to peel the rag out of Castle's mouth, making him flinch when the silver-grey duct tape is removed from the reddened, raw skin either side of his mouth.

Castle snatches up the food in his free hand and begins eating. Though he's eager to hear more about Kate, he's starving too.

"What, no questions?" asks Tyson, setting a large bottle of water down just inside the door.

"Is there any point?" asks Castle, looking up at his captor, determined not to show too much interest since he knows the man will only use it against him.

"Aww. Don't tell me you've given up on sweet Kate already?" he sings, making a hideous face. "I've been sending her flowers on your behalf. We'll win her round together, you and I. Woo her back. Don't worry. I'm sure you'll be seeing her pretty face again _real soon_."

"I don't want you anywhere near her," growls Castle, his words slowing as he notices the shirt Tyson is wearing.

The logo stitched over the pocket reads: _'Blue Water Flowers, est. 1989'_ beneath a stylized lotus flower stitched in the palest turquoise. Castle knows he's seen that logo before, and that the business is somewhere local, and he shudders to think where Tyson might have gained access masquerading as a florist store deliveryman.

Tyson catches Castle eyeing up his shirt, and he backs up towards the door.

"Your mother's looking well, all things considered, and what a generous tipper," he grins, producing a ten dollar bill from his pocket and waving it at Castle. "And you'll be relieved to hear she's keeping the place nice for you," he taunts.

Castle grunts and tries to lunge towards him, but the restraint limits his movement and Tyson is quickly out of range, cackling at the effort Castle expels to no effect. He trains the gun at the writer's head.

"Nah, ah, ah," he admonishes, shaking his head, a crazy glint in his eye.

"_Stay away_ from my family," spits Castle. "We had a deal."

"Eat up," says Tyson, his voice much colder now, as he rolls the bottle of water closer to Castle's foot. "Can't have you fading away. Your girlfriend won't recognize you. And we wouldn't want that now, would we? Sweet dreams," he adds, chillingly, before withdrawing from the room and relocking the door.

* * *

Castle sags the second Tyson is gone, wiping his eyes with the heel of his hand. The overhead light flickers and he prays he won't be left in the dark if the bulb fails. Even if it makes sleeping difficult, the light is a comfort.

The noodles are lukewarm and congealing by now, but he finishes them regardless, never knowing when his next meal might come. Then he closes his eyes, preparing to settle down for the night, summoning an image of Kate to accompany him to sleep. But the only image that will come is of Kate in tears by his front door as they said their last goodbye, and he has to force the picture away in order to avoid breaking down.

He begins to write dialogue in his head instead – a petty argument between Nikki and Rook - until his brain fuzzes out and a tortured sleep comes to greet him, carrying him away for several hours of fitful oblivion.

* * *

_A/N: Dun, dun, dun... Have a great weekend, all. Liv_


	11. Chapter 11 - Friendship

_A/N: __Apologies for the short delay on this chapter. Birthday weekend etc. Time off for good behavior. Onwards..._

* * *

_"Don't disturb  
The beast  
The tempermental goat  
The snail while he's feeding on  
the Rose  
Stay frozen, compromising  
What I will  
I am"_

_**- A Perfect Circle**, 'Rose'_

* * *

_**Chapter 11: Friendship**_

"Lanie's on the line. She has lab results from the latest note and…" Rachel pauses, as if she's still listening to something, holding the phone to her ear.

"Faxing them over?" asks Jordan, dumping her bag on the desk.

"…and the orchid plant," adds Rachel, continuing her live update. "They pulled some usable prints off the pot. You're never going to…"

"Tell her not to fax them. Tell her I'm on my way," calls Kate, whirling around and heading for the elevator.

"Oh, Kate, there's a message for you," yells Rachel, stopping her in her tracks.

"_A message?_" she asks, turning back, her heart somersaulting, hopeful.

"Yeah, a Mrs. Shapiro? Said she's your rental agent."

"Oh…right. I'll call her back later," says Kate, grabbing the yellow post-it note with the realtor's number on and stuffing it into her pocket, feeling deflated.

* * *

Lanie is in the morgue, sitting at her desk reading autopsy notes into a Dictaphone for her assistant to transcribe. She glances up when Kate taps on the swing door and then enters, her expression sheepish as she pops her head around the door.

If she had a white handkerchief she'd wave it, expecting, after her talk with Esposito, to find some coolness and disapproval here too.

"Kate," exclaims Lanie, getting up out of her chair to come over and greet her friend with a hug.

She's so startled by this display of affection that it brings a lump to her throat.

"Hey," says Lanie, softly, when she sees the emotion in Kate's eyes. "How you holding up, honey?" she asks, squeezing Kate's shoulder.

"Fine, I think."

"How's D.C.?"

"The last thing on my mind right now. The lab found prints on the latest delivery?"

"Yeah," says Lanie, recognizing Kate's need to stay focused on work to control her anxiety and keep her sane. "I have them on my desk. Rachel said you were on your way over."

"Rachel, yeah," says Kate, nodding at her friend.

"What? You don't like her?" asks Lanie, glancing up from a stack of files.

"I don't really know her. I…" she stalls, feeling petty and pathetic all of a sudden; like she's back in Junior High and just discovered her supposed best friend moved on with Cindy Baranski while she was out sick for a week with chicken pox.

"Feel like she's stolen your life?" offers Lanie, perceptively.

"Something like that."

"She's nice. Get to know her, I think you'll like her."

"You see much of her?"

"We've been out a few times."

"Out-out?" asks Kate, wanting to know, but not wanting to know.

"Drinks at The Old Haunt for Javi's birthday. Castle's treat. Dinner at Remy's a couple of times after the team closed a case. Just the usual," says Lanie, casually, still looking through the files on her desk to find the right one.

"Ryan go with you?"

"And Jenny. She's starting to show," grins Lanie. "It's all she and Kevin can talk about."

"Jenny's _pregnant?_" asks Kate, wondering yet again how in hell she ended up so out of the loop.

"Oh, sweetie, you didn't know. I'm sorry. Yeah, be about four and a half months now."

She digests this amazing piece of news and wonders what the hell she was thinking when she walked away from her family like this. Cut herself off to get to grips with a job? Stupid, stupid!

* * *

"_So_…" she says, drawing out the single syllable until she can work up to saying the next set of words without sounding as if she's yelling them at Lanie, they're so damned obvious. "Rachel and Castle seem to be working closely together," mentions Kate, trying not to let her jealousy seep through, but failing miserably.

Lanie stops what she's doing, straightens up to look at her.

"Are you asking what I think you're asking?"

Kate sighs and mutters, "God, I hate this," sotto voce.

"Kate?" prompts Lanie.

"Are they…has he…?" she flounders, helplessly, a fish out of water.

"What? Moved on already? Since you fled to D.C. and left him high and dry?"

"I knew it!" says Kate, feeling her breakfast coffee making itself known once more, the bitter acidity burning the back of her throat.

"Rachel's girlfriend, Kelly, works over at Memorial Sloan-Kettering," throws in Lanie, her tone light and conversational.

"_Girlfriend?_" repeats Kate, sounding weak at the knees with relief.

"Oncology nurse," nods Lanie, opening the file. "Really funny girl. Met her a couple of times now. Great sense of humor. Javi actually split a pair of pants one night laughing at one of her filthy jokes."

Kate lets this news sink in. Lost inside her own head, as if she's left the room entirely, Lanie forgotten.

"If Castle moves on, Kate, it's entirely on you. No one else," says Lanie plainly, the painful, bare truth drawing Kate back to the present.

"I know," she acknowledges, quietly, nodding.

* * *

Lanie clears her throat.

"So, your note for starters. Card is standard florist store issue. There were no prints at all on the paper. The envelope, as you know, wasn't sealed, so no DNA from the flap. But you did miss this…tucked inside the envelope, says Lanie, holding up a slightly wilted, though still fairly spectacular rose petal.

"How did we…?" asks Kate, taking the small plastic evidence baggie from Lanie's hand.

"I unfurled it with tweezers. It was rolled up good and tight. Whoever wrote that note used this as a kind of…Crayola."

"So, that wasn't blood?" asks Kate, the relief evident in her voice.

"No. Not unless you count the blood of this beautiful petal. It's from a Black Baccara Rose. Closest thing the natural world has to a black flower."

"It is beautiful," says Kate, holding it up to the light. "If it weren't for the circumstances…and the sender."

The rose petal is a deep, dark blood red, the texture luxurious and velvety.

"Man gives me a bouquet of these? I'm his forever," says Lanie, taking the evidence bag from Kate and putting it back in the manila file.

"Rachel said CSU pulled prints off the plant pot?"

"Yeah. That's the worrying part. Kate, the prints we pulled included some unknowns. Two sets. So we're getting exemplars from the florist to rule out the staff."

"But?" asks Kate, knowing there's more.

"The lab ran them all through the system. But the only prints we found in AFIS…they were a match to Jerry Tyson."

* * *

The air in the morgue goes even stiller, even cooler, if that is possible.

"Jerry Tyson handled that orchid plant?" asks Kate, swallowing dryly, her brain tripping over all the ramifications that flow from that one fact.

Lanie nods wordlessly, watching her friend's face as realization dawns.

"He…"

"He followed the delivery boy from the store, knocked him out in the parking lot behind the building, threw him into the back of the van, and then delivered the plant to Castle's home himself."

"How…? How do you…?"

"CSU called after they got the hit on those prints. The van was found abandoned early this morning down by the docks. Some fishermen heard banging and yelling. The delivery guy came round, found himself locked inside the back of the van. No one was around to hear him at first. They called to let me know they'd found the same prints at a secondary crime scene."

"And no one reported him missing?"

"Castle's delivery was the last of the day. He takes the van home to Brooklyn every night. No one would have missed him at work until first thing this morning."

"But Castle's new doorman said… _Shit!_" exclaims Kate, thumping the stainless steel autopsy table, the metallic sound echoing through the tiled space.

"What?"

"He said that the delivery guy wore a uniform, a cap. Dammit. He's back to dressing up and then entering people's homes because no one thinks to look beyond a badge. This is pure, vintage Tyson. How could I have missed that?"

* * *

Kate runs a hand through her hair.

"Was there anything else?" she asks Lanie.

"No. That about covers it."

"I have to go. I'm going to have to get a protective detail put on Martha and Alexis. Get the loft swept for devices again. He was in there and we never even knew…"

Kate shakes her head.

"It's the same nightmare all over again. He's back and he's out to destroy Castle for whatever sick reason…"

"Sweetie, keep your chin up. If anyone can stop this guy, it's you. You've done it before."

"I thought we stopped him last time. Castle shot him. Multiple times. I saw him go over that bridge, assumed he was dead, Lanie. But Castle knew…"

"Knew what?"

"He believed, sensed, _knew_ somehow that Tyson wasn't dead and I wouldn't listen to him. I thought he was being a drama queen. Lanie, I walked away from him on that bridge when we should have kept searching. That guy is indestructible. I _know_ that. And Castle…he's pretty intuitive. He's proved it time and again. Why didn't I listen to him? Why do I write him off, underestimate him…_still_? After everything. This is all my fault."

"How do you figure that?"

"Because I gave up and walked away."

"Are we still talking Tyson here or…"

Kate doesn't even try to pretend.

"I've made such a mess of everything, Lanie. Even Espo is mad at me."

"Only because we care about you, Kate. All of us. We want to see you happy."

"Funny, that's what Javi said too."

"Because it's the truth. If you're fulfilled with your job in D.C., you either need to find a way to make it work with Castle or cut him loose for good. Because it's time to stop sugarcoating it, honey. That man is suffering and he doesn't deserve it."

"You don't have to tell me that. I know."

"_Really?_ Do you? Because from what I heard, you cut and run."

The silence is heavy and awkward and much as Lanie wants to fix it, she knows that she can't; that giving Kate a free pass now will prolong Castle's agonizing stasis and her friend's equivocation.

"I know. I know," frowns Kate, looking down at her shoes in shame.

"Then _do_ something about it, Kate. You said this job was going to force you to talk about your future. Seems to me you ran before that discussion could even take place."

"Not entirely," says Kate, cryptically.

"What does _that_ mean?"

"Before I left…"

"Go on," encourages Lanie, watching as Kate reaches inside her purple button-down for something.

She holds up the diamond ring on its chain for Lanie to see.

"Castle proposed," she says, waiting for a reaction from her friend.

"Are you kidding me?" yells Lanie, bouncing with excitement all of a sudden. "You got engaged, Kate Beckett, and you didn't tell me?"

"Lanie. _Lanie!_" interrupts Kate, trying to get her friend's attention, to get her to still long enough to listen to her. "We're not exactly engaged."

Lanie looks deflated.

"Oh, no. No. Tell me you did _not_ screw this up."

"I…" hesitates Kate, feeling stupid all of a sudden.

Because her actions were stupid, cowardly, selfish…all those pitiful things she thought she'd worked her way out of with Castle's help.

"Kate, you're wearing the man's ring. If that doesn't say 'engaged'…?"

"I took the ring with me to D.C. because Castle insisted it was mine…regardless. But it sat in a drawer. I only started wearing it like this yesterday, when I moved back into the loft. I needed…I just needed to feel close to him."

"And how do you feel about things now?"

"Being back here is…it's…I don't know. Torture? Familiar in some ways. Only he's missing from the picture. The biggest piece is missing. And so many things seem to have moved on."

"Without you?" suggests Lanie, gently, earning herself a silent nod in return.

"I don't know why I thought that everything would just stand still, waiting for me. Arrogance, I guess."

"Don't be so hard on yourself. We all like to think the world sits up and takes notice at times. It's not like you asked for any of this, Kate. And wanting a career doesn't make you a bad person."

"But leaving Castle hanging without an answer does," she admits.

Lanie doesn't even attempt to reassure her this time.

"Call me the second you hear anything," Lanie tells her, giving her a departing hug.

"He's been communicating through these flowers. Now he has my attention, Jordan Shaw thinks he'll be back in touch again soon. I just want whatever's coming to just…hurry up and get here. I need a chance to make this right. Sick as it is, Tyson is the one with power to let me do that."

"Work out what you want and then be clear with him, with Castle. He'll thank you for it in the long run, no matter the outcome, Kate," Lanies counsels her.

"I just hope I get that chance," says Kate, giving her friend a wave and then heading out into the hallway.

* * *

She pulls out her phone and calls Jordan Shaw.

"Lanie's sending the lab report over to you now. That plant pot had Tyson's fingerprints on it. He was _in_ Castle's loft, Jordan, speaking to Martha last night. I want a protective detail put on her and Alexis. I need TARU at Castle's place to sweep for bugs and any other devices he might have planted in there, and I need someone to send a photo of Tyson to my phone so I can go over there and brief Castle's family."

Jordan listens to her requests and ticks them off one-by-one.

"Blood? No, he used a rose petal to write the note, made it look like blood," Kate informs Jordan, pacing the hallway.

"At the precinct?" she asks, feeling her face flush. "Dark, almost black? Velvety petals? Yes, that sounds the same," says Kate, rubbing her forehead as Jordan describes a bouquet of roses that have been delivered for Kate while she's been out this morning. "They're called…eh, Black Baccara, I think. No, Lanie," she laughs, when Jordan praises her expert rose knowledge. "We missed a similar rose petal rolled up inside that envelope that last night."

"I had no idea the FBI used Google so often," laughs Kate, when Jordan tells her Rachel is checking the meaning of this particular rose on the internet. "Death, farewell. Anything else?" asks Kate, hating this symbolism as much as the two orchids, maybe even more so. "Mystery, magic, hope, depth of love and passion? I think I prefer those."

"Was there a card?" she asks, wincing, not even sure she even wants to hear the message if there was one.

"Just one word? What did it say?" asks Kate, doing a one-eighty in the corridor to begin walking in the other direction. "_Always?_" she chokes out, slamming to a halt, as Jordan asks if that word means anything to her.

Only '_everything'_, she wants to tell her.

"I…" she stalls, would rather explain the intimacy of the message face-to face. "Did you check the handwriting?" she asks instead, her mouth going dry.

"A new sample?" asks Kate, pressing her fingertips to her lips. "So, you mean it's different to the note we got last night, and from the first one?"

She's about to tell Jordan to go into her bottom desk drawer, to fish out the little stack of yellow Post-It notes Castle left her hidden in the oddest of places over the last year and that she kept and hid away like treasure, hoping the top few are reasonably clean in content, when she remembers that she has no desk anymore, that Rachel McCord is sitting in her seat.

She explains to Jordan that she'll have to collect an example of Castle's handwriting from home…the loft…to compare, when the FBI Agent speaks into her ear again.

"What? Rachel has one? Oh, right. Of course she does," says Kate, still unable to get over the fast-friendship this woman, her replacement, seems to have formed with her partner. Lesbian or not it still hurts, she still feels excluded.

"It's Castle's handwriting, isn't it?" she asks, when Jordan goes quiet. "Son of a bitch," she mutters, kicking the water fountain out in the hall. "Fine. Yeah. Meet me there," she tells Jordan, hanging up the call and heading for the exit.

* * *

_A/N: __Many thanks to CKRose for suggesting that a rose petal could be used to write a message that appears to be written in blood and for the information on the 'Black Baccara Rose' itself. _Still with me? Liv


	12. Chapter 12 - Stranger Danger

_A/N: On with the story..._

* * *

_"I had a dream, which was not all a dream._

_The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars_

_Did wander darkling in the eternal space,_

_Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth_

_Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;"_

_**- Lord Byron**, 'Darkness'_

* * *

_**Chapter 12: Stranger Danger **_

When Kate arrives at the loft, the front door is lying open, a number of hard-sided, aluminum tech equipment cases are sitting out in the hallway, and a man she doesn't know stands sentry outside the elevator.

She can hear numerous people conversing inside, their voices floating out to greet her. But it is the deep voice of the man right in front of her that steals her immediate attention.

"I.D. please?" he asks, stepping in her path to block her route down the hall.

"Eh…" she stalls, surprised and instantly sounding guilty of something as she pats herself down. "Sure. Here," she says, finally fishing her FBI credentials out of the last pocket she checks.

The yellow Post-It note with her realtor's number on it is stuck to the front of the leather wallet, and she hastily pulls it off and jams it into her jeans.

"Sorry," she apologizes to the plainclothes detail. "Kate Beckett,"she offers, as he studies her ID.

"No. My apologies," smiles the man, giving her an appreciative look when he sees her credentials. "Lot of Federal interest in this guy. Must be important. Famous author, so I hear," he gossips to Kate in a hushed, intimate tone of voice while trying to look down the front of her shirt, she's horrified to note.

"And _my_ _partner_," adds Kate, killing the flirtation dead. "Officer…?"

"Right. Jeez. My bad," says the cop, stepping aside. "Dan Ryder," he adds, latterly, by way of introduction thrusting out his hand, which she completely ignores.

"No one gets past here without a thorough check," she says, prodding the man's shoulder with her finger for emphasis. "_They_ want to go out anywhere, you stick to them like glue. Let anything happen to Martha Rodgers or Alexis Castle and I will see to it myself that your ass gets busted down to traffic for the rest of your miserable career. Understand, Officer Ryder?"

The man nods and Kate sweeps past him to be met by Jordan Shaw, poking her head out the front door.

"Thought I heard voices," she grins, giving Kate's angry face an amused appraisal and then looking at the thoroughly chastened young man posted at the other end of the hall. "Problem?" she asks, with a catlike smile.

"Only for him if he screws up," mutters Kate, following Jordan back inside.

* * *

Rachel is sitting at the kitchen counter with Alexis and Martha, a photo array spread out in front of her. She's sipping tea from Castle's Batman mug and Kate has an irrational urge to snatch it from her hand and slap her across the face. She looks disturbingly comfortable in Castle's home and his daughter looks on friendly terms with her replacement too.

"Kate," smiles Rachel, as she approaches. "I'm just taking Martha and Alexis through Tyson's mug shots. And I pulled whatever else I could find off the system. Longer hair, this old one when he wore a mustache, some of the newspaper photos from when he was collared a few years back for killing those women."

"Great," smiles Kate, weakly. "That's really helpful."

She is grateful for the care Rachel is taking to protect and alert Martha and Alexis, but she can't help thinking back to the time when that was her job, exclusively.

"Hard watching yourself be replaced, isn't it?" whispers Jordan, giving her a nudge, like a little devil sitting on her shoulder muttering her own dark thoughts into her ear. "When my ex-husband married his secretary I went out and bought the most expensive purse I could find," she confesses, pointing to a dark tan, Hermes Birkin bag sitting on one of the nearby stools.

"Did it help?"

Jordan shrugs. "Did when he called me up to rant about his credit card bill," she grins, wickedly. "Damn bag has lasted longer than my marriage and we've been through more together. Still miss the selfish bastard sometimes though," she confides in Kate, her smile still fixed in place. "Lonely nights in the middle of a case when the world looks like it has nothing good to offer."

"Yeah, I've seen a few of those," concedes Kate.

"That, and once, in the middle of winter, when the heat wouldn't work and my feet were freezing."

Kate laughs and gives Jordan an appreciate smile. She can see what the woman is trying to do and despite it being so obvious, it is helping and she is grateful.

"Never found anyone else?" asks Kate, driven by Jordan's honesty to ask more than she normally would.

"This job…" she shrugs, "…and with my daughter. Not many men get _what_ we do or _why_ we do it. Castle is one man who gets it. Don't lose that warm pair of feet if you can avoid it, Kate."

Kate nods and then turns to see Alexis watching her. Rachel is looking over too, clearly wondering what the pair are discussing.

* * *

"While we're alone, the note that came with the roses…" says Kate, quietly.

"Yes?" asks Jordan, walking her back towards the front door.

"_Always_, it's…it's kind of a thing…" she sighs, not exactly knowing how to explain their special word to the acerbic wit that is Jordan Shaw.

"A thing?" asks Jordan, arching one eyebrow and putting Kate on the spot with her easy amusement.

Kate frowns and shakes her head, searching for the right term.

"A...a code word between us, I guess. It's something Castle used to say, early on, before…"

"Right," nods Jordan, letting her off the hook for now. "So, Tyson would know about this…this _code word_ how?"

"I have no idea. That's what scares me. It's not something we routinely said in front of anyone or wrote down. So it had to come from Castle himself."

"You think Tyson coerced it out of him?"

"Looks that way. And with the handwriting…"

Kate bites her lip and balls her fists by her sides, anguished.

"When I think what he might be—"

"_Don't!_" interrupts Jordan, holding her hand up to silence Kate. "I've been patient with you so far. Made allowances. But Kate, it is time for you to step up, to focus, use the smarts the Feds hired you for. This guy has obviously been watching you two, otherwise how would he know you'd gone to D.C. leaving Castle behind?"

"Did you run all his previous aliases? Look for activity on social security numbers?" she asks, feeling her anxiety unfurl a little when she snaps back into work mode.

"Of course. Came up empty."

"He _had_ to be living somewhere. He needs money. He either has help or…"

Kate pauses, thinking, trying to think like Jerry Tyson.

"Or?" prompts Jordan.

"Martha? Alexis? We need to compile a list of anyone new who appeared in Castle's life, or even _your_ lives, recently. Anyone who suddenly surfaced over the last few months. Anyone who would have had access to personal information, or…or who got close to him. Someone he might have confided in or…"

"Are we looking for men only? Or men _and_ women," asks Rachel, causing Kate to stop in her tracks and turn to face the detective.

"Men," replies Kate, as evenly as she can. "Let's…let's start with men right now. I'm looking for Tyson himself or an accomplice. We already know about Sonny Manovitch, the new doorman, and from what I understand from the boys, he's been thoroughly checked out. So, lets move on. Anyone else you can think of…Alexis?" asks Kate, raising hopeful eyes to the girl.

"_Since_ you left him?" asks Alexis, coolly.

"Since, probably. But if there was someone from before that time…? It might sound like I'm clutching at straws here, but this guy seems to know a lot about our lives," admits Kate. "He obviously knew I was in D.C., given the 'Welcome Home' message."

"What else?" asks Alexis.

"The common name of the first orchid would seem to suggest that he knew your dad and I were in a relationship," she adds.

"What was the name?" asks Alexis, forcing Kate to come clean in front of Rachel.

"The Widow Orchid," she confesses, watching Alexis' face, since Martha already has this information.

"Don't you think that means he probably knows dad proposed to you too," says Alexis, bluntly, her chin jutting out in defiance, as Kate flushes and Rachel McCord's eyes widen momentarily.

* * *

Rachel hops down off her stool and walks away, murmuring something about checking on the techs carrying out the bug sweep.

"Possibly," says Kate, levelly, glad for once that the boys aren't here. "Possibly not. It could just be a reference to the fact that we were together."

"There was that young chap at the lawyer's office," suggests Martha, flapping her hand as she searches for his name. "Oh, now what was his name? _Ugh!_ I think I'm going senile, darling," she grins weakly at Kate.

"The assistant who oversaw the signing of our wills?" offers Kate, quietly, remembering Castle's insistence before she left that he wanted to have his will updated since they would be spending an unknown time apart.

It had started out as a joke, when she almost stepped off the curb one night into the path of a speeding car and he tugged her back just in time. When he made a wise crack about the incident adding to his 'saves tally', it led to him solemnly pointing out that he wouldn't be there to have her back anymore. That fleeting incident quickly morphed into a couple of meetings a week later with his legal advisors so that Castle could get his affairs in order. Kate insisted that if he was going ahead with making provision for her in his will then she would do the same. Despite have much less to leave behind, it was the gesture that counted.

When it came time to sign the paperwork, Castle's own lawyer was off sick, so a paralegal Kate had never met before had overseen the actual signing.

"His prints will be on file with the firm. That's how they swipe in and out of the office. Biometric touch screens. His name is David Rosenberg," Kate tells Jordan.

"Way to track your employees," comments Jordan. "I like it. He fit Tyson's general stature, build, skin color?"

"Eh," Kate thinks back to the uncomfortable meeting spent in black leather swivel chairs at a long mahogany conference table, papers spread out in front of them while the man opposite calmly listed the large sums coming Kate's way in the event of Castle's death. "I guess," she replied vaguely, looking to Martha for help.

"Darling, do _not_ look at me. He came here once with something for me to sign and I complimented his silk tie. Aqua blue background with tiny hummingbirds is all I can remember, dear," sighs Martha.

"But there's no way Tyson could hold down a position like that for any length of time. In the past, he took on more manual roles. Cable repairman, even a security guard. No, the knowledge needed by a paralegal would be too hard to fake," Kate tells her.

"Okay, then let's look at less qualified jobs," suggests Jordan, as Rachel rejoins them at the kitchen counter.

"What about that new driver?" asks Rachel, turning to Alexis. "The night your dad dropped me home, remember? You two were going on to the movies. Rick asked the driver what happened to the usual guy. Eh…?" She taps her forehead, brow bunched in concentration, blond hair tucked behind one ear.

"Michael," supplies Kate, her heart hammering, remembering all the times they'd travelled in the back of the car with Michael Williams at the wheel, talking freely about everything and anything, not giving a thought to what the man might overhear.

"Rachel's right," says Alexis. "He told us Michael was on vacation. But I don't think I've seen him since."

"Right, we can call the car service. Check with them. Do you remember the new guy's name?" she asks Alexis and Rachel.

Rachel shakes her head, just proving Kate's point: that these people are like elevator muzak most of the time so long as they're wearing the right uniform.

"Eric," says Alexis. "His name is Eric. But I don't know his surname. He took me back to Columbia a few times late at night. He was kind of talkative, come to think of it. I just thought he was flirting with me," the girl confesses.

"Anyone else you can think of?" asks Kate. "Think really hard. This guy is good at blending in. We know that from yesterday when he was right here pretending to be a flower deliveryman."

"Gina hired a new assistant," blurts Martha. "A young man. Richard was teasing her about him on the phone, I remember. He called her a cougar. I think she hung up on him for that."

"Okay, I'll put a call into Black Pawn, if you take the car service," Kate suggests to Rachel, who nods back in eager agreement.

* * *

Rachel begins gathering up the photographs she has spread out on the counter, and just as she's stacking them together, Alexis speaks again.

"What if this guy wasn't watching dad," she suggests, freezing them all.

"What do you mean?" asks Kate.

"He summoned you back here by holding dad hostage to get your attention. What if he was watching _you_ and that's how he knew that you left?"

"Anything is possible," says Jordan. "She could have a point. Anyone new in _your_ world, Kate?"

Kate thinks for a moment, but she can't come up with anyone. Her life mostly revolved around the Precinct or Castle's loft before she left. Anyone working at the Precinct would have been properly vetted. They seem to have covered the new faces in Castle's world.

"Not that I can think of before D.C." she replies, shaking her head. "No."

"Right, let's get back to the Precinct and follow-up on these leads," says Jordan. "We can leave TARU here to finish the bug sweep and Officer Ryder is right outside in the hall if you need anything. Call if either of you need to leave the house and we'll send someone over to accompany you."

"I'll see you both tonight," says Kate, bidding Martha and Alexis farewell.

Martha takes her arm and walks her to the door.

"Richard's life didn't change that much in the weeks you were away, Kate. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that it shrank considerably. Try not to worry, my dear," she whispers, patting Kate's arm. "See you tonight," she adds, giving her a dry, fragrant kiss on the cheek.

* * *

They're waiting for the elevator when Kate's cell phone rings. She answers it and walks a little away from Jordan and Rachel to improve the reception and gain some privacy.

"Mrs. Shapiro? Yes, I got your message. I'm sorry. I've been…"

Her realtor cuts her off and Kate has to stop talking to listen to her rapid fire update.

"I'll see what I can do. Yes, I'll call you back," she says, hanging up the phone and quickly joining the two other women in the elevator, while Rachel holds the doors for her.

"Problem?" asks Jordan.

"The tenant who's subletting my apartment hasn't paid the rent this month," explains Kate, chewing on her lip.

"Ah," nods Jordan.

"And there have been noise complaints from the neighbors, apparently. Could we…? Do you suppose we could stop by on our way back to the Twelfth? It'll only take a minute," says Kate, anxious to get the shrill woman off her back and curious to find out why the rent remains unpaid.

* * *

Jordan and Rachel wait in the car while Kate runs inside.

It feels strange being back in her old building again. Subtle changes – a poster in the lobby, a new pot plant – hint again at a world in perpetual motion, though it still has the same comforting smell.

When she gets to her front door she pauses. The lock has been changed. The silver Yale plate on the front is new and shiny. She raises her knuckles to knock, calls out and then waits for a response. She thinks she hears something from beyond the door, but no answer is forthcoming.

A noise further down the hallway startles her, and then she relaxes, smiling when her neighbor, Mrs. Thomson, appears wearing her raincoat and a colorful silk scarf. A gnarled wooden walking stick propels her forwards towards Kate with a repetitious thump.

"_Kate!_" she exclaims, feedback from her hearing aid causing it to whistle shrilly in the quiet of the corridor.

"Mrs. Thomson," enunciates Kate, loudly. "You look well. Going somewhere nice?"

"Lunch with my niece," she announces, proudly, giving Kate a cheery grin.

"Ah, lovely," nods Kate, giving her own front door another look.

"You won't find him home until later," says the old lady. "Keeps strange hours that one."

"What do you mean?" asks Kate.

"Here some mornings, then out all night. Other days it's the opposite way round."

"Maybe he works shifts," suggests Kate, trying to remember what the rental agreement stated he did for a living.

"Young people," sighs the old woman, shaking her head. "Always in a rush. Always going somewhere. Walk me downstairs, dear?" asks Mrs. Thomson, and Kate doesn't have the heart to refuse, since the elevator is out of order and the old woman is unsteady on her feet.

They walk away down the hall at a sedate pace, Eleanor Thomson chatting ceaselessly about her pretty young niece, Kate's arm threaded through the old lady's thin, bony one for support.

* * *

Inside the apartment, Tyson has the muzzle of the gun pressed into Castle's temple. The writer is breathing heavily through his nose, mostly as a result of the gag, every sinew in his body tensed, his heart hammering, a strange kind of hope flushing his cheeks despite everything.

"That's the way," sings Tyson, grinning sadistically, as the footsteps and voices recede down the hallway. "Be a good boy and that mother of yours lives to a ripe old age."

Castle knows Kate was just outside the door and he could weep, so many conflicting emotions overwhelming him right now.

"Told you you'd be seeing her soon," says Tyson, smugly. "Still. We're not quite ready for guests yet," he adds, lifting Castle's lunch tray and relocking the door.

Soon after, Castle hears a resumption of the same muffled noises he's been listening to for the last half an hour through the soundproofing the psychopath has added to the bathroom door. It sounds like tape being ripped, cut and fixed to something just outside. He doesn't know what's going on, but he knows that if Tyson's involved it can't be good.

He lets his head drop forward onto his knees and he closes his eyes, offering up a silent prayer that Kate figures this out sooner rather than later.

* * *

_A/N: Dun, dun, dun... :O Liv_


	13. Chapter 13 - The Uncomfortable Truth

_A/N: So, Tyson is holding Castle at Kate's apartment. The evil monster... Glad the clues weren't too obvious and I managed to surprise at least some of you. Onwards..._

* * *

"_Silence stared me in the face_

_And I finally heard its voice_

_It seemed to softly say_

_That in love you have a choice_

_Today I got the answer_

_And there's a world of truth behind it_

_Love is out there waiting somewhere_

_You just have to go and find it"_

_**- The Dixie Chicks**__, 'I Believe In Love'_

* * *

**Chapter 13: The Uncomfortable Truth**

"She's not gonna like it, I'm telling you," Kate overhears Ryan insisting, as she walks back from the break room a couple of hours later.

* * *

She had to take a breather after a very uncomfortable phone conversation with Gina, yet another person in the Castle universe, along with Alexis, who seems to blame Kate for everything.

"I lent him to you for the last five years and now he's gone missing?" she had berated Kate over the phone. "I got barely a chapter out of him after you left town. If you think of any other ways to ruin his career or break his heart, please keep them to yourself," was how she had ended the fraught call.

Kate had never heard Gina so…so tigress like before, so protective of Castle. The playful, flirtatious, fluffy blond kitten had turned sharp-clawed and nasty. Perhaps she really did love her ex-husband after all.

The new assistant at Black Pawn, a Thierry Le Havas, turned out to be a skinny, tan, college grad on an internship. Easy on the eye, but more pretty than smart, and certainly no criminal mastermind. Gina had ended their…'arrangement' a couple of weeks ago, and Castle had only met the guy once, fleetingly. So he was quickly scored off the list as a possible Tyson or accomplice.

* * *

"If by _she_ you mean _me_, just spill, Ryan," says Kate, tiredly, in no mood for the boys' games or riddles today as she approaches their desks with a cup of coffee.

Esposito gives Ryan a long look, purses his lips, shakes his head and then turns away, as if to say 'you're on your own with this one, bro.'

"Rachel called Castle's car service. The manager was out and his secretary wouldn't discuss employee information over the phone without his—"

"Ryan, just cut to the chase," interrupts Kate, bringing the mug to her lips, and for the umpteenth time she drinks coffee that tastes foreign to her: as if without Castle's magical input - his love and care - it somehow lacks…something.

"The owner, Terry Waters, he just called back. Rachel is on lunch right now so—"

"_Ryan!_" warns Kate, for his continued delaying.

"Get to the point?" he asks sheepishly, and Kate nods. "Yeah, so, the new guy that replaced Michael Williams?"

"Yes?" asks Kate, placing the mug down on a nearby desk, her hand trembling a little as she does so. She crosses her arms over her chest to steel herself for what's coming, feeling the two engagement rings dig into her breast bone as she does so.

"His name is Eric Winters. He applied for the job four months ago. Came with a full set of papers and several letters of recommendation."

"But?" asks Kate, sensing that there's more.

"There was a…"

"A what, Ryan? Hurry up."

"A snafu."

"A snafu? What are you talking about?"

"No one checked his credentials, ran even a criminal records check or looked to see if his license was clean."

"How is that possible?"

"The woman in charge of hiring went on maternity. And the guy who took over…" Ryan shrugs. "They were down three drivers and desperate to hire quickly."

"There's more," chips in Esposito, and Kate looks at him in horror.

Ryan sends him a filthy look, and Esposito turns and walks away again.

"Just…just tell me everything," implores Kate, needing to rip this particular Band Aid off in one go.

"So, _we_ ran Eric Winters through the system this morning. His DMV license is a fake, his social security number, name, date of birth, everything belongs to a baby boy born in Rockaway Beach, Queens in 1979. The real Eric Winters died aged three weeks."

"This guy used a stolen identity? And…and he was driving people around the city…? He was driving _Alexis_ back to her college dorm late at night, Ryan. He chatted to her. She said he was talkative. Even if it's not Tyson…"

Ryan shakes his head, silencing Kate.

"You know for sure? You're _absolutely_ certain?" asks Kate, her heart rate spiking enough to physically halt her, steal the air from her lungs.

"They faxed over an employee photo I.D. which isn't great. But it's close enough."

"Close enough? We can't go on close enough!" she rants, shaking her head.

"No, maybe not," says Ryan, calmly letting her vent. "But we _can_ go on this."

Ryan hands her a scanned photograph printed in color on a letter size sheet of paper. It shows a group of people herded together at what looks like a company BBQ. Everyone is grinning drunkenly and a few people are clowning for the camera. Conspicuous for his lack of smile, eyes shielded from the sun, is the unmistakable face of Jerry Tyson. He looks slightly heavier than Kate remembers, thicker around the middle, and his hair has been dyed jet black, his eyebrows tinted to match, and he has allowed long sideburns to grow below his ears. But it's definitely him.

"Kate? Beckett? You okay?" asks Ryan.

Coming closer, he takes the sheet with the photograph on it out of her hands, drops it on his desk, and guides her off into the conference room where it's quieter. They're just sitting down at the table when Esposito comes in and joins them.

* * *

"I…" Kate falters, pressing her hand to her chest in what's becoming an increasingly frequent gesture. "I think I've seen this guy…this _version_ of Jerry Tyson somewhere before," she says, a wave of nausea washing over her that forces her over the table and then over her knees when she manages to push the chair back from the table.

"Did he drive you guys somewhere maybe?" suggests Esposito, glancing at Ryan with some alarm.

"I…" Kate shakes her head. "Possibly. We only took a couple of trips before I left. Didn't exactly spend nights out on the town…given how things were," she offers, and it's more than she would usually share they all know, but then these are exigent circumstances.

"I told Castle I didn't want him running me to the airport the day I left," she confesses. "He arranged a car…so maybe…" she says, pressing her fingertips into her eye sockets until she sees stars, trying hard to remember and feeling as useless a witness as Joe Public.

"Beckett, what happened to you guys?" asks Ryan, the question finally just exploding out of him, as if it's been bubbling just below the surface since she up and left them all in the dust with little more explanation than 'new job, great opportunity'…followed by long silence.

Ryan, above all of them, believes in home and hearth and family. He has a stronger faith to buoy him when times get tough. It's clear he doesn't understand what went on between her and Castle, beyond that of an anxious child with a simple equation guiding his life – mom and dad love one another, ergo they should be together.

"It's complicated," she sighs, sitting up straighter, the wave of nausea having briefly passed. She pushes a hand through her hair and blows out a long breath.

But it's Esposito who surprises her next.

"When is it not?" he asks sharply. "_Complicated?_ We're _cops_, Beckett. Relationship breakdowns are par for the course. But…you guys?" he says, shaking his head, a look of something close to disgust on his face. "Nah, I'm not buying it."

He rounds on Kate a second time before she can respond.

"If you broke up with Castle to take that job, he clearly didn't get the memo. Cause the guy just kept on showing up here exactly like he did the summer you got shot. Like…like he was waiting for something."

"Even Gates took pity on him," Ryan chips in, his voice softer, kinder, less accusatory than Esposito's.

"Okay! Okay! You can stop with the guilt trip. I know that this is all my fault," she says, stridently. "Don't you think I know that?" she asks, this time her voice little more than a hoarse whisper.

"Beckett…we don't mean to—" soothes Ryan, touching her shoulder.

"Yeah, well, you are," she says, wiping her cheek and swallowing roughly.

When the boys make no move to change the subject or leave the room, she looks them both square in the face.

"He was waiting for an answer, okay?" she says, biting her lip.

"An answer?" repeats Esposito, frowning, as if he doesn't get it.

"_Oh_," says Ryan, latching on immediately, watching as she withdraws the chain from under her shirt and holds up the ring for them to see.

"He _proposed_ to you?" says Esposito, his voice full of amazed surprise, and not for the first time Kate is impressed by Lanie's absolute loyalty to her. "Castle proposed, and…and what, you just left?" asks Esposito, disbelieving, accusing even.

"Now you know why he was how he was while I was gone."

"Beckett, you know we aren't taking sides," says Ryan gently, before he turns to give Esposito a hard, 'back-off buddy' stare. "So, if you need to talk or anything…"

"What I _need_ is to find Castle," she says, abruptly standing up.

Esposito leaves the room. Ryan lingers a few seconds longer and Kate catches his arm just as they near the door.

"Kevin, Lanie told me your good news. Congratulations. Really. I'm so pleased for both of you. Give Jenny my love, won't you?"

"Sure," he replies, nodding, a smile restored to his face for a brief moment. "We're…we're pretty excited."

Rachel appears at the door just as Ryan is about to say something else, but the moment is lost.

* * *

"Danny Munro wants to see you," Rachel tells Kate. "And I don't think it's good news," she adds, by way of warning, bumping shoulders with her as they walk back to the desk the FBI tech specialist has commandeered.

Captain Gates is standing facing Jordan Shaw, her arms crossed and her jaw set in a hard line as the two converse quietly. Both women give Kate slightly sympathetic looks as she approaches.

"What?" she asks her old boss. "What is it? Just—"

"Beckett, please listen to what Agent Munro has to say," advises Gates.

"TARU have just reported back. They completed a sweep of Mr. Castle's entire loft apartment and—"

"They found something, didn't they?" interrupts Kate.

"Let the man finish," scolds Gates, frowning at Kate.

"They found several, I'm afraid," he admits, tapping on his laptop to bring up a briefing document.

Kate sinks into the chair beside him and the others gather round.

"The main phone line into the house, the one in the kitchen area, had a hardwire bug fitted into the handset. They're used for what you would know as wiretapping."

"He was listening into phone calls?" says Kate, actually sounding relieved, believing he'd get little information about them that way. "Castle hardly used that phone. None of the family did. He'd know our Chinese takeout order at best, but not much more than that."

"It's not that simple, I'm afraid," replies Agent Munro, pointing to an image of a tiny microphone, about 6mm in diameter, with a couple of wires coming off of it. "This needs only a simple modification to the handset, a small capacitor, to leave the microphone connected even when the phone is not in use."

"So…?" flounders Kate, trying to get her head around the purpose of this bug. "What would that—?

"Connect a lead with an amplifier and headphones to the line and you can listen, in high quality audio, to _any_ and all activity in the room. Even when the phone is not in use," he repeats for emphasis.

You could hear a pin drop in their closely gathered circle. Kate feels her nausea returning.

"Was there anything else?" asks Gates, grimly.

"We found a new kind of bug, high tech, frontline technology, known as an Infinity bug, located in Mr. Castle's bedroom."

Kate doesn't hear the next few words, when her ears begin to ring and she thinks she might actually throw up.

"What's that when it's at home?" asks Esposito, his word choice unconsciously poor.

"It works on the GSM mobile telephone system. Place one of these little suckers anywhere, literally anywhere, and you can transmit a conversation from the target area to any telephone in the world," says the Special Agent rather too proudly for Kate's liking.

"Holy shit!" exclaims Esposito, before he emits an _'oof'_ sound, when Ryan jabs him hard in the ribs.

"In this case, it was fitted inside the radio alarm clock on the night stand by Mr. Castle's bed," continues Agent Munro.

* * *

Kate abruptly gets up out of her chair and walks away, just walks blindly into the break room, where she leans against the counter, breathing in and out slowly through her nose to stop the bile that's rising in her throat from getting any further.

Her mind swims, wondering how long these things have been there, how he got inside to plant them in the first place, and what on earth Tyson might have overheard; the intimate moments between them he might have been party too, the arguments, the silences, the sadness and disappointment.

When she thinks about the clock by the bed a second time, she actually has to bolt for the sink, only just making it in time to throw up what little she's eaten today, quickly turning on the faucet to flush her stomach contents down the stained aluminum drain. She finds herself wishing for Castle to be at her back, as bad as this is, to rub soothing circles into her tensed up muscles and press a cold washcloth to her forehead, just as he did one night early on when she got food poisoning and she vomited until she cried.

The scrape of a boot on the worn linoleum tile tells her she's not alone, though the one thing she can be certain of right now, is that she won't turn around to find Castle at her back. So, she spits into the sink once more and grabs a paper cup to fill with water so that she can rinse out her mouth.

"I hope I'm not disturbing you," says the increasingly familiar voice of Rachel McCord. "Only…well," she confesses, "…no one out there seemed to think I should check on you, but…"

Kate turns round to find the young woman shrugging and confident.

"I don't often listen to what other people think," she offers, almost as if this is some part apology, though there is obviously no way she intends leaving the room. In fact, if anything, she's moving closer.

"You have a little…" she says, hesitantly, pointing to the side of Kate's mouth.

Before Kate can react, Rachel has a Kleenex in her hand and she's dabbing at the seam of Kate's parched lips.

"There," Rachel says, with some small amount of satisfaction for a job well done. "All good," she adds, as Kate touches her own fingers to her lips and backs away slightly, the tender surface skin still tingling from the female detective's light touch.

The tissue has been pressed into her hand, and she balls it in her palm as tries to untangle her knotted feelings.

"This must all be a little overwhelming for you, I'm sure," says Rachel, on a roll now that she has Kate alone it would seem. "Rick missing, that…that madman out there again…_inside_ your home. I read your old DD5's," she tells Kate. "You must be shocked to find out that he's back after being so sure that Rick had managed to eliminate him last time."

"I should have listened to him," says Kate, something in the woman's quiet, open demeanor drawing her out to share her thoughts.

"I don't understand," says Rachel, perching on one of the high stools in the center of the break room, while Kate crosses her arms and leans back against the counter.

"Up on the bridge, after the shootout, we stood watching for hours until the daylight came, waiting for the team of police divers to find Tyson's body. Somehow, Castle just knew that they wouldn't find anything."

"Why?"

"He thought we'd been led to that bridge on purpose so that Tyson could spectacularly disappear. I remember he asked me how a wanted man stops being wanted."

Kate brushes her hands down the front of her pants.

"He said _'It has to be public and it has to be final'_," recalls Kate, tears beading along her lash line as she remembers dismissing his fears, telling him he was crazy, and then just walking away from him. "He thought people would stop looking…and he was right, we did. And look where that's got us," she whispers, wiping her nose on the back of her hand and looking off to one side in quiet embarrassment.

* * *

Rachel says nothing, just gives Kate more space to talk if she needs to.

After a moment, Kate laughs hollowly, sniffs and then dabs at her cheeks with the Kleenex Rachel handed her.

"God, you must think I'm such a mess," she blurts, blowing the hair out of her eyes.

"No," replies Rachel, immediately, shaking her head. "No, I don't. I have no idea how you've remained so focused for this long. If something like this happened to Kelly…" she trails off, twisting a plain silver band around on her ring finger.

"He talked about you a lot," she says, surprising Kate. "I knew I had big shoes to fill before I came here…your reputation…quite something."

"NYPD gossip. It's legendary. Most stories are hyped, but I'm sure you know that already. Work your twenty in this department and eventually everyone's a legend in some corner bar in this city. I'm sure you're doing great," Kate offers, generously.

"He pissed me off the first few days," admits Rachel, and Kate's head shoots up. "You were all he could talk about. _'Beckett would have done it this way'_," she mimics, getting Castle pretty dead on. "Later, when I told him as much, he said he must be losing his touch, 'cause he'd pissed you off for the first few _years_," she grins, and Kate can't help grinning with her, despite everything.

"I miss him so much," confesses Kate, a wave of pure emotion overtaking her, almost bringing her to her knees.

She bends over, bracing her hands on her thighs, as fat tears hit floor, forming spatter patterns on the cracked Lino.

She feels Rachel's hand on her shoulder, feels her slender fingers grip muscle and bone and squeeze lightly. This woman is unafraid of her, open, boundaryless, but in a good, quiet, honest, healthy way, and Kate understands now why she and Castle have become friends so quickly. She says what she thinks and she does what needs to be done without a second thought.

* * *

"I'm glad he had you," Kate manages to say, when she straightens up.

"Nah," says Rachel, shaking her head. "I'm a poor substitute. Kelly, now, _she_ can make him laugh," Rachel grins at a memory Kate only wishes she'd been there to share. "I can see what he sees in you now that you're here. The stories, the photos even…they don't do you justice. But I think it's time we found him, don't you? Make some new stories he can inflate and exaggerate," she suggests, tilting her head back towards the door with an easy smile.

"Thanks, Rachel," says Kate, as they reach the threshold of the bullpen.

"Buy me a drink sometime when this is over, and we'll call it even."

"You're on," says Kate, shaking the woman's hand, before they rejoin the fray.

* * *

_A/N: Hope everyone had a good week. Happy Friday! Liv_


	14. Chapter 14 - Driven To Distraction

A/N: Apologies for the update delay. Busy time of year.

* * *

_**Chapter 14: Driven To Distraction**_

"We need to interview the owner at Select Cars. Eh…?" Kate presses her fingertips to her forehead, brow scrunched in concentration trying to remember the man's name.

"Terry Waters," supplies Ryan.

"Right, thanks. See what else he call tell us," says Kate, after she and Rachel join the boys and Jordan, who are listening to Special Agent Fabio Hernandez outline what he expects to happen next, given his extensive experience of kidnapping cases.

"We're not dealing with kidnapping convention here," says Kate, when Agent Hernandez suggests the Castle/Rodgers family should expect a ransom request sometime soon. "This guy is not motivated by or in this for money. He didn't snatch Castle because of his wealth or his public profile. This is personal," she insists.

"Let's just listen to what Agent Hernandez has to say," interrupts Gates, giving Kate an impatient glare.

"This man is a psychopath, a social misfit. My best advice to you," says Kate, ignoring Gates to address Fabio Hernandez and Danny Munro directly, "is to expect the unexpected and never, _never_ underestimate him for a second. He will come at you out of left field. So look among yourselves, wherever you are. He is great at blending in, at becoming the guy in the uniform you wouldn't look twice at. He's a chameleon, a shadow."

"With mommy issues," chips in Jordan Shaw, without irony. "And now daddy issues too, if the profile we're building in relation to this current situation is correct."

"Meaning?" asks Captain Gates.

Jordan looks over at Kate, who reluctantly nods.

"We think he wants to reunite Castle with Beckett. That by bugging their home, he learned about Kate's job in DC and the circumstances of her leaving. It is entirely possible that he was planning a revenge attack on Castle all along, after what happened the last time, and potentially the job threw a monkey wrench right in the middle of his plans…"

"_Or _offered him an even greater opportunity," suggests Rachel McCord.

"How so?" asks Gates, with interest.

Rachel looks at Kate this time, also seeking permission to share personal information with the group.

Kate nods again and Rachel gives her a sympathetic smile in return.

"We know he likes drama. Previous cases prove it. They are living apart, haven't spoken since Kate left town. He knows this by following Castle around, he listens in to his life, sees how…"

Rachel pauses, seems to rethink her choice of words and then resumes speaking.

"Sees how he's living with Kate gone and so he decides to strike, create a little drama of his own by seizing Castle and luring Kate back here to save him, treating them like pawns in his own sick little game. He knows she'll come. There was never any doubt about that. So, I think Kate's right about this being a nonstandard kidnapping case. He's preparing some kind of get-together, reunion…call it what you will. And I think _that_ - the invitation to that little party - is what we need to be on the lookout for. Not a ransom note."

"Fine. Then we work off that theory. We know he was employed by Select Cars. McCord, Beckett. Why don't you two go down there and interview the owner. Find out anything you can about Tyson's living arrangements, friendships, associations, habits, patterns, how and where he was paid, what he ate for lunch if it helps… Anything this guy or his staff can tell you. And then I want you to call it in. We need to share information as fast as we get it on this one, keep everyone in the loop. Jerry Tyson has been out in front of us for too long. It's time we regain a little ground."

"And we need to stop revering him, people," announces Jordan Shaw, before the group breaks up. "Stop treating him as if he is infallible, superhuman. He's bound to mess up at some point, show his arrogance, and we need to be ready to spot it, catch that one small fact he lets slip, that one mistake that'll trip him up. Remember, eyes on the detail at all times. Think 'Son of Sam', and you won't go far wrong."

"Understood," says Rachel, grabbing her leather jacket off the back of her chair and joining Kate, who's already en route to the elevator.

* * *

Rachel checks her gun and then slides it all the way back into the retention holster clipped to her belt beneath her jacket, as the elevator car descends towards the lobby.

"Expecting trouble?" asks Kate, watching her drop the leather jacket back to her side.

"You never know."

"Tyson will be long gone from that job by now, I'm telling you. Best we can hope for is a home address, which will most likely be fake, or some bank account details. Just don't expect to run into him today."

"That's a little pessimistic," she counters, watching Kate carefully. "You heard what Agent Shaw said. He'll slip up soon."

"No. No, I'm being _realistic_. Based on the run of back luck we've had with this guy in the past. Nothing comes easy with him," Kate warns Rachel, her mood edgy and despondent without her partner to buoy her up, to lift her with his outside the box thinking and his relentless optimism.

"Look, I know what it means for you to find him, Kate. How crucial it is. And I might not have known him very long, but he's a really great guy. I want to find him too, you know," she reassures Kate, just as the elevator doors open and the world rushes up to meet them.

* * *

The garage premises of Select Cars is part of a small group of light industrial buildings set close to the corner of Spring and Washington, in sight of the Hudson River. Traffic hurtles by on West Street, and a light breeze whips off the river tossing Kate's hair. A large sailing ship progresses majestically southwards towards the tip of Manhattan with its deck-load of tourists out for a daily cruise and a helicopter passes overhead en route to the West 30th Street heliport. The frequent gusts of fresh, river air sweep away the traffic fumes before they can accumulate. Only the lingering smell of motor oil staining the concrete hardtop in front of the garage wafts up from the ground now and again to fill Kate's nostrils.

"Ready?" asks Rachel, stilling her determined stride towards the single story building with a gentle hand to her arm.

Kate pauses, looking down at her temporary partner's hand.

"We'll get more with honey than vinegar this time," suggests Rachel. "Ryan said Waters was reluctant to talk on the phone. We cannot afford to have this guy clam up if we go in too strong. Kate, we need him to cooperate…for Rick's sake."

"I know," says Kate, a little indignantly, though she knows Rachel has a point, and the woman can probably read from her body language alone just how steamed up she is; that she wants to go in there and grab this guy by his lapels and pin him up against the nearest wall and pound into him for his negligence, his sloppy housekeeping, poor record checking and anything else she can think to throw at him.

He let a convicted killer drive around the city with unaccompanied minors in the back of his fleet of town cars with no thought to the danger he was putting his clients in, many of them women and kids.

They ask for the boss when they get inside the garage. Two uniformed drivers are leaning against the hood of a brand new, black, Cadillac XTS chewing the fat and they both point towards a glassed-in office space in the darkened rear portion of the garage, tracking the two women with their eyes after they pass.

Rachel takes the lead by unspoken agreement. Kate watches her walk change for the last few strides it takes to reach the chipped blue door, her hips taking on more of a sensual swing. She shakes out her blond bob, fluffs it up with her hands, and plants a smile on her face, as if getting in character. Kate flashes back to the first time she and Castle went to the Old Haunt, back before he owned the bar, when they were investigating the murder of Donny Hayes, a former dockworker turned bar owner. She did the exact same thing – let her hair down and shook it out, put on some lip gloss and left Castle's jaw hanging open when she took him up on his suggestion that she might want to 'pop one more button' on the front of her shirt. This scene is just one more thing reminding her how much she misses having him alongside her at work. Never mind back at home, sharing her bed.

"You ready?" asks Rachel, grabbing her attention, as the detective raises her knuckles to rap on the glass window of the office.

Kate nods, giving her the go-ahead.

* * *

"Yo!" yells a deep voice from inside.

"Are you Terry by any chance?" grins Rachel, hanging onto the doorframe and pouring her upper body inside the small, dimly lit office, her feet still planted on the concrete outside.

A number of auto repair manuals share the wall shelves behind a pair of desks with a variety of heavy-duty, three-ring binders. The words _'Shift Roster', 'Payroll', 'Hiring Forms', 'Timesheets', 'Invoicing'_ and such have been printed on the white spine labels in neat, black Sharpie.

Kate's eyes settle on a binder marked _'Employee Information'_, and her palms begin to itch. She has an irrational urge just to snatch it straight off the shelf and rifle through it until she finds what they've come here looking for. But she hears Rachel speaking again and she tunes in to hear what Terry Waters says in response.

"You from Immigration?" asks Waters, looking warily at Rachel and then peering past her to check Kate out.

"Do we look like Immigration Officers to you?" asks Rachel, pouting as if he just offended her, planting one hand on her waist and flaring out her hip.

"Sweetheart, if you told me you were Victoria's Secret models it wouldn't surprise me," he leers, giving her a toothy grin.

"And if I said we were cops?" she adds, still grinning at him winsomely.

"I'd say get outta here," he replies, his booming laugh echoing off the cinderblock walls, his swivel chair squeaking as he bounces slightly in place.

But his secretary isn't laughing, and she isn't even smiling, because by this point she has seen the murderous look on Kate's face and she knows they're being deadly serious.

"Ter," she hisses, trying to get her boss' attention. "Ter!"

"_What?!_" he snaps, looking at her with undisguised irritation, as if they're at a bar and she just ruined his chances with this honey he's been coming onto by waddling up to him and draping a fat, possessive arm around his shoulders.

"This is the Detective I spoke to on the phone, if I'm not mistaken," she says, addressing Rachel. "I never forget a voice," she tells Kate, looking seriously pleased with herself.

"Thank you for that introduction," says Rachel, standing up straighter, her lolling, draped posture replaced by her customary upright stance.

She could be a dancer, Kate thinks idly, watching Rachel realign her spine and tilt her chin up, raising her height by half a foot in the process, while they wait for Terry Waters' brain to catch-up with current circumstance.

"You from TRIP*?" he asks, doubtfully, narrowing his eyes.

Rachel shakes her head.

"TLC**? Traffic Enforcement? Because I paid all those outstanding tickets…"

"Mr. Waters," interrupts Rachel, "we're from Homicide," she says, nodding when he does a double take. "Yeah, you heard right," she reassures him. "We need you to answer a few questions about an employee of yours."

"Got his file right here," chips in the helpful secretary, Hilda Brown, handing her boss a copy of Eric Winters' personnel file, aka Jerry Tyson.

Terry Waters gives Rachel a long, slow look, as if he's deciding how the rest of this impromptu visit is going to go. Rachel kicks out her hip again, placing her hand just below her holster, the flank of her leather jacket displaced to reveal her sidearm.

"You carry out criminal record checks for all your drivers, Mr. Waters? Licenses all squeaky clean and Kosher with the DMV? No disqualifications, DUI's, sex offenders or illegals lurking anywhere in those files?" she says, pointing to the open file cabinet sitting behind his desk. "Cause one phone call…" she threatens, giving him a sweet-toothed grin.

"What do you need to know?"

"When was Eric Winters last here…working?"

"Hasn't shown up for his regular shift for the past week. Son of a bitch owes me too."

"How's that?"

"Talked an advance out of me, didn't he. Promised to work it off. Thought he would too. He was one of my most reliable guys the last few months. Showed up on time, clean, polite, customers liked him."

"You keep a record of which driver picks up which client on any given day?"

"Sure. But I'm telling you. I got no complaints about Eric."

"How'd he get paid?"

"Same as everyone else. Money goes straight into bank accounts these days. Cash tips they keep for themselves."

"We're going to need those bank details," interjects Kate.

Terry looks at her as if he's seeing her for the first time.

"No way are you a cop, darlin'," trips out of his mouth, as if he can't help it.

He's almost drooling over Kate, and she's glaring back at him when Rachel kicks the modesty panel on the front of his desk, forcing his chair to go skidding back against the wall. It only stops when he hits his head against the bookshelf.

"What the fuck?" he exclaims, rubbing the back of his skull.

"I'll print it off," says Hilda Brown seamlessly, already tapping at her keyboard, as a printer instantly whirrs to life on a table in the corner of the office and a white sheet of paper spews out a second later.

There'a a cork pin board on the wall above the printer, a collage of photographs covering the entire surface, and Kate spots the photograph they send to Ryan hastily pinned back in the lower righthand corner, Jerry Tyson's unsmiling face looking out at her.

"We need a home address too," adds Kate, cutting Terry out of the conversation all together now. "A list of every pick-up and drop off Eric Winters made. And any other contact details or information you have on file: cell phone, email address…"

"He have any next of kin listed in that file?" asks Rachel, focusing all her attention back on Terry.

"Next of…? No. Said he was an only child, orphaned, as I recall."

"What about friends? He friendly with anyone here?" asks Rachel, looking over her shoulder, back out into the garage forecourt where several men are now playing street craps, shooting dice against the painted brick wall, their uniform jackets draped over the hood of one of the cars.

"He wasn't unfriendly, but he pretty much kept to himself."

"Had a girlfriend though," adds Hilda, smiling. "You remember that pretty nurse he was dating. Now what in heavens was her name…?" grins Hilda, tapping her chin as she tries to remember.

"Think. Please, this is very important," Kate urges her, trying hard not to show how much the information matters to her and failing miserably; her desperation all too evident from the hunted look in her eyes.

"June! No. Jackie! Or Jenny, maybe? Come on, help me out here, Ter. You remember, the cute blond with the…"

"Her name was Jessie," he says reluctantly, like he has no choice.

"Jessie Calman! That's it!" exclaims Hilda, smacking her own forehead. "I swear to God I'm going senile," she giggles at Kate. "Honey, you sure you're okay? You're lookin' kinda pale."

Kate heard the words '_cute blond'_, and partnered up with Jerry Tyson, they made her blood run cold.

"Eh…I'm fine. Do you know where this…this Jessie Calman lives?"

Both Hilda and Terry shake their heads.

"No. Only met her a couple of times when she picked him up after work," says Hilda, and Kate's heart sinks. "But I do know where she works," she adds brightly.

"Well?" prompts Rachel.

"Works in radiography...over at Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center."

* * *

Castle wakes up, dazed and disorientated. His growth is getting thicker and he rubs a hand down over his chin, feeling the softer pelt of his beard under his fingertips; smoother now that the short stubbly grown has moved onto the next stage. Kate's never seen him with a beard before. He wonders what she'd think of him like this. But then he remembers what she thinks of him period, of how she left, stayed silent, after all those months of closeness, intimacy, all those months he thought they were building towards something; growing, creating a future together.

He's been trying hard to fight it, but Tyson seems to know too much. His words are like the whispered secrets in the darkest parts of Castle's own brain. Tyson has him wondering if Kate would have come back if it weren't for his kidnapping. If his life were not in danger, would she have returned to New York at all? During more lucid moments, he thinks he knows the answer, and then at other times the dark fog of doubt descends and he doesn't believe that she would have…not for him alone.

He tries hard to take comfort from being here – in her apartment – no matter how horrific, sick and twisted the implications of that fact are. Her things are all gone, but the fabric remains. So he maps out the familiar lines, corners, crevices, surfaces and patterns of her bathroom – the internal room where he's currently being held. He pulls up memories as if they are songs on his iPod; small moments in time to remind him how special, how precious their life together was before she left. Soaking in her bathtub together – the first time they did that, the instant she lay back against his chest and drew his arms around her body, lacing her fingers with his, so intimate, so touching, he felt a tear course down his cheek, had to pretend it was perspiration from the steamy air to stop her finding out what a sentimental sap he was being.

He listens hard now for hours at a time, until it drives him to distraction and his own heartbeat sounds so loud that it drowns out everything else. But he needs to be alert to her possible return, needs to feel the fortification that comes from knowing for certain that she's out there looking for him, that she still cares, that he is still important to her, not forgotten. Because Tyson is weakening his faith, wearing him down, one insidious little remark at a time.

So, he waits, he breathes, he listens and he fights hard to hold onto his memories.

* * *

_A/N: *TRIP stands for Taxi/Livery Robbery Inspection Program. An NYPD initiative launched in the 1990's to address a rise in livery car robberies at the time and is available to all licensed taxis or livery cars operating in New York City. It's a free to register program, which authorizes police to inspect taxi and livery cars at anytime in order to ensure the driver's safety. _

_**TLC is the Taxi and Limousine Commission, the New York City licensing body for livery vehicles and chauffeurs/drivers._

_Hope everyone's having a good week. Liv_


	15. Chapter 15 - Dawning Realization

_A/N: Thank you for all the great reviews and comments. I love how your minds work._

* * *

_**Chapter 15: Dawning Realization**_

Once they leave Select Cars, their day is a chase-tail affair of tracking down addresses that don't exist, obtaining warrants for bank account information and IRS files, and circulating a BOLO for Eric Winters, aka Jerry Tyson.

In the late afternoon, they leave Danny Munro working on Eric Winters' email account and hit the road in search of the nurse Hilda Brown said Tyson has been dating.

Rachel calls her girlfriend, Kelly, from the car on the way to Memorial Sloan-Kettering and asks her to put in a discreet call to Radiography to find out if a Jessie Calman is on shift today. She calls back a couple of minutes later, just as Kate is heading north on Third Avenue where it crosses East Twenty-Third Street.

"She gets off at seven. We have a little over half an hour to get there. No sweat, right?"

"At this hour? I wouldn't say that until we get through Midtown," says Kate, watching the traffic back up in front of them, a flotilla of red taillights sailing ever closer.

"Relax. We can always make a little noise," suggests Rachel, putting one foot up on the dash, as she leans back in her seat and stares out the side window of the car at the honor guard of pedestrians who're keeping pace with them out on the sidewalk, so slow is the traffic moving up ahead.

"Okay, I've had it with this," announces Kate, a couple of seconds later.

She flicks the siren to 'wail' for a few beats and turns on their lights to get the traffic edging off to one side so they can move up to the next block and then cut out right along East 24th Street, before maneuvering them onto 1st Avenue, which will take them all the way up to East 67th Street where the Cancer Center is situated.

When they get there, they circle the block just once, finding a parking spot near the front entrance on York Avenue; their first stroke of luck that day.

* * *

Kelly is on a break and meets them at the front door. She's shorter than Rachel, petite, with glossy dark hair drawn back into a low bun, a few tendrils escaping around her ears to soften her look. Her dark brown eyes sparkle with humor and a warm welcome as they approach. Her face is pretty and well framed by equally dark eyebrows, and as they get closer she holds out her arms to Rachel, drawing her into a quick, tight hug.

"Hey babe, this is a nice surprise," she says, giving her a kiss on the lips before pulling back. "Didn't expect to see you until tonight."

Kate hovers in the background, anxious to get on with things, but also curious to meet this woman who managed to make Castle laugh when she left him behind, a miserable mess.

"Kelly De Marco, meet Kate Beckett," announces Rachel, with a bit of a flourish.

"Oh, my god!" exclaims Kelly, looking past Rachel to Kate and then back at Rachel again. "Now I totally get what Rick sees in her. Don't you?" the woman asks her girlfriend, giving Kate a thorough once-over that makes her blush. "She's gorgeous," she says, as if Kate isn't even there, before adding, "Hi. Sorry, I'm Kelly. The insane one," she tells Kate, sticking out her hand. "I've heard so much about you," the nurse gushes, giving Kate's hand a firm shake and then tugging her down so she can kiss her on each cheek.

"I…I wish I could say the same," offers Kate, thrown by this instant display of affection. "But it's great to meet you. I hear you…you, um, spent some time with Rick before..."

"A little. He's a really great guy. And so _funny!_" exclaims Kelly, making Kate smile, despite everything, from her enthusiasm alone and the cute way she has of wrinkling up her nose when she laughs.

"Yeah, he has his moments," agrees Kate, wistfully.

"So what is with this nurse, Calman?" asks Kelly, looking from one woman to the other.

"Oh, we could tell you, Kels, but then we'd have to kill ya'," drawls her girlfriend, laughing when Kelly pouts and narrows her eyes at her. "Isn't that right, Kate?"

"And what if I were to withhold information on her whereabouts?" Kelly teases, not realizing the seriousness of the situation or why they're actually here.

"That would be considered hampering a police investigation and you do _not_ want to go there," says Rachel, slanting her eyes in Kate's direction and tilting her head so that Kelly picks up on her meaning.

"Ah. Oh, right. Then in that case, you'll find Radiology in the basement level. Just ask for Jessie Calman at the Nurses' station. Like I said, she's on until seven tonight."

"Great. Then we should go. I'll see you at home later," says Rachel, kissing Kelly on the cheek this time.

"It was lovely meeting you, Kate."

"Likewise," replies Kate, raising her hand in a departing wave.

"We should get together sometime, all four of us," she suggests.

"I would really like that," agrees Kate, living for the day when that might be an actual real live possibility.

* * *

The nursing supervisor reluctantly summons Jessie Calman once badges are flashed and mild threats made. She appears from one of the treatment rooms wearing a pale blue lead apron, which she quickly un-vecros and takes off.

"We need to ask you a few questions about your boyfriend, Eric Winters," Rachel tells her, discreetly showing her badge. "Is there somewhere we can talk?"

The nurse looks panicked and for a second Kate thinks she might bolt. She glances at the suspicious looking supervisor seated behind them and evidently decides to play ball.

"There's a staff meeting in the Nurses' Lounge," the woman tells them, loudly, cutting off that avenue.

"Great," mutters Jessie. "Right…locker room's this way," she says, leading them off down the dimly lit corridor.

"What is this about?" asks Jessie, once they are inside the high-windowed room.

Blue metallic lockers line both outer walls, the tile is a dull grey color and the space smells faintly of hairspray and a sweet, floral fragrance Kate realizes is coming from two Purell hand sanitizer dispensers fixed to the wall by the door.

"When did you last see Eric?" asks Rachel, straddling a bench in the center of the floor and sitting down, as Kate lounges against one wall of lockers over by the door, deliberately cutting off the exit.

Jessie lays her lead apron down on the bench and goes over to open her own locker, before she answers the question.

"Jessie?" prompts Rachel.

"Am I in trouble?" she asks, kicking off her white clogs and then pulling a pair of flats out of the locker floor to replace them with.

"Why do you ask?" queries Rachel.

"I…dunno," she says, shaking her head so that her blond curls bounce and shiver. "Nothing."

"So, when did you last see him?"

"Few days, I guess. He's been coming over less. Said he was busy with work, but I've been wondering if maybe he's cheating on me. I stopped by the garage where he works one day, and Hilda, she's his boss's secretary—"

"Yes, we've met Hilda," interrupts Rachel. "So, what made you think he was cheating on you?"

"He seems…different lately."

"Different in what way," asks Rachel, planting her hands in front of her on the bench and leaning forwards.

"Distracted. Like he has a lot on his mind. I said honey, let me relax you, and he just brushed me off like he didn't want me touching him."

"Was that unusual?"

"I'll say. We have what I'd call…an extremely _physical_ relationship. In fact, there have been times when he's made me a little scared of him," she confesses.

"Scared? Why?"

"This one time, when we were…_you know_, he choked me so hard I passed out," Jessie whispers, looking around to see if anyone else might be listening, though it's plainly evident that they are alone. "Had to wear a scarf for a week. It's a good job I wear a thyroid protector at work."

* * *

Kate's anger is bubbling up and then the fear she feels every time she thinks about Castle being held by this sick bastard rears its head.

"Is he living with you, Miss Calman?" asks Kate, joining the fray.

"He was to begin with, but then my sister came to stay, so he rented his own place a few months back."

"How long ago did you two meet?" asks Rachel.

"Last November. We met through a friend of mine. She's an ER nurse at Bellevue. Hooked us up."

"How did she know Eric?" asks Rachel, breezily, though Kate can tell from her face that she realizes she's on the trail of something.

"He came in with gunshot wounds. She thought he had beautiful eyes."

"Sorry, can we just rewind to the gunshot wounds?" says Rachel, snapping Jessie out of her lovesick stupor.

"Eh, yeah. Some thug said Eric owed him money, which he didn't, and then he just shot him when he wouldn't pay up. The guy dumped him in the _river_ and left him for _dead_," she says, wide-eyed with concern.

"That's terrible," says Rachel, playing along.

"I know, _right?_ This city," she says, shaking her head. "Anyway, we went on a date…well, if you can call feeding someone chocolate pudding with a plastic spoon a date," she grins wistfully. "I visited him everyday after that, held his hand. And then when he was finally discharged, he came home with me and I nursed him back to health."

"Must be love," grins Rachel, sweetly.

"He sure is somethin'," replies Jessie, her face taking on a dreamy look.

* * *

"So, you said he rented an apartment of his own. Have you visited this apartment?" asks Kate, getting impatient to hurry things along. "Do you know where it is?"

"No. No, he said he had work to do, wanted to make it nice for me. That it was going to be a big surprise. That's what made me wonder if he's seeing someone else. I called him up this one time quite late at night cause I'd had this…this nightmare, and he used to…" she trails off looking a little embarrassed.

"He used to what, Jessie?" encourages Rachel, leaning forward again so she can speak quietly.

"Sing me to sleep," confesses Jessie. "Some pretty song he said his mamma used to sing for him when he was a little boy."

Rachel glances up at Kate and the two exchange looks.

"So…what did you hear when you called him that night?"

"I heard a voice in the background, only it sounded male, deep, and the room…the voice sounded echoey, like they were somewhere tiled…a bathroom maybe. He cut me off and when he called back and I asked him about it he told me I was imagining things. But I wasn't. You know, I even wondered if he might be…gay," she whispers. "Cause sometimes, he couldn't…you know," she says, making a crooked gesture with her index finger.

"Right," says Rachel, slowly. "Gay? He couldn't just have been…I don't know, like out at a bar while pretending to be home?"

"Nah, I heard a toilet flush, one of those old-style ones with the chain and the squeaky pipes, and then a refrigerator door open and close, a beer bottle being uncapped. No, he was definitely in someone's apartment."

* * *

She turns her back on them to get something else out of her locker and Kate spots a series of photographs taped to the inside of the locker door. Some are groups, all female, posing for the camera, most show the nurse with a younger woman who looks just like Jessie, and then she spots one that sends her heart rate spiking.

Jessie is wearing a dark chauffeur's hat, just like the one the drivers at Select Cars wear, the cap tipped saucily to one side. She's sitting on a man's knee, and though the hair is a little shorter, it's definitely the version of Jerry Tyson they saw in the Select Cars' company picnic. He's wearing a grey suit, white shirt and a black necktie, and something about the photograph begins to agitate something deep in the recesses of Kate's brain.

"May I?" asks Kate, reaching out to point to the photograph.

"Oh, sure," grins Jessie, peeling it off the locker door and handing it to her for closer inspection. "Look at those eyes," she adds, biting her lip coyly. "Couldn't you just lose yourself in them?"

"You a good cook, Jessie?" asks Kate, out of curiosity, ignoring her last prescient remark.

"How'd you know?" she asks Kate, turning back round with a smile on her sweet, plump face.

"Eric looks like he's well taken care of," she says, pointing to the photograph.

"He was just skin and bone when I got him home from hospital. But he _loved_ my rice pudding and he couldn't get enough of my whipped potatoes. Like I said, I nursed him back to health. My sister said I spoiled him, washing and ironing his shirts like a slave, she said. But it's not spoiling if you love them and they love you back, right?" insists Jessie.

"Right," nods Rachel, rolling her eyes at Kate.

"Anyway, why're you asking all these questions?" she finally gets around to wondering. "He's not hurt is he?"

"No, nothing like that. His boss hadn't seen him for a few days, called us because he was worried. That's all. You hear from him, you give us a call, okay?" says Rachel, handing Jessie Calman one of her cards.

"Can I just check the cell phone number we have for him," asks Kate, pulling out her own phone.

"He's on 646-555-7121," offers up sweet, unsuspecting Jessie without a second thought. "I know it by heart 'cause I'm 7122," she says, looking from one woman to the other like this should hold way more significance than it does. "We bought our phones together."

"Okay, well, I think we're done here. You've been very helpful, Jessie. As I said, if you hear from Eric…"

"I'll be sure to kick his ass and give you a call," she grins, raising her hand in a cheery wave.

* * *

"You sure we shouldn't warn her?" asks Kate, once they're back out in the corridor.

"What? That her boyfriend's a serial killer? No. Our best hope of catching him out is by keeping an eye on her. If we tell her she'll only freak out and scream it from the rooftops. No, let's call Gates and get a team to sit on her place. If he feels the need for a little autoerotic asphyxiation to relieve some of that… Sorry, I'm sorry," she says when she sees Kate's horrified expression. "That was dumb of me. I fall back on humor at the most inappropriate—"

"It's fine," says Kate, hurrying towards the elevator, her head still full of their chat with Jessie Calman. "We need to get a trace on that cell phone and find out how the boys got on with the bank details we got from Terry Waters today. And what the hell is with Bellevue not reporting those goddam gunshot wounds?"

"Look, why don't I do that. I'll call the hospital. The paperwork just probably got lost somewhere. You go home, spend some time with Martha and Alexis. And get some rest…"

"No. No, I need to _find_ him, Rachel," protests Kate, sounding agitated.

"And you will. Just not like this – exhausted and not thinking straight. Drop me off on the way," she insists, and Kate finds herself giving in, thinking time with Alexis might be no bad thing.

"Call me the second anything pings on that phone or you get ballistics on the Bellevue shooting. Castle shot Tyson with _my_ gun, so check for matches in IBIS, DRUGFIRE and NIBIN*. And find out what patient name he was registered under. Any extra aliases that he might still be using would be useful to know."

* * *

Kate's on her way back downtown after dropping Rachel at the Precinct when her cell phone rings. It's her realtor again, calling to check-up on the tenant.

"I still can't get him on the phone and the rent is nearly two weeks overdue by now. Kate."

"I dropped by yesterday, Mrs. Shapiro, but there was no one home. Did you know he changed the locks? Anyway, look, I'm on my way to SoHo. But I can go over there right now, see if he's home. My elderly neighbor thinks he works shifts, so…"

Kate ends the call with a strange feeling of déjà vu. Like a tiny creature crawling up her spine as if it is a ladder, the idea comes over her by stealth. By the time she's climbing the stairs to her floor, the pieces are slotting together – the photo in Jessie Calman's locker, that grey suit and white shirt, the dark hair, the sideburns, a key fob swinging like a pendulum from a man's fingers with the distinctive laurel wreath and crest design of the Cadillac emblem printed on the front and the words 'Select Us. You won't regret it' printed on the reverse side.

By the time she's standing outside her own front door, her knuckles raised to knock, she knows with a deep, gnawing certainty who's waiting on the other side. The bathroom flush, the chain operated cistern, the squeaking pipes, the refrigerator door, all of it…

She feels like a lamb heading to slaughter, but she can't help herself, can only try to help _him_ now.

Thirty seconds after knocking, the door is opened, and the man they've been looking for all along greets her with a welcoming, predatory smile.

"Why Detective Beckett, I was beginning to wonder what was taking you so long," he says, stepping back to usher her inside.

* * *

If she's early, a surprise, he doesn't let her see any of that.

She reaches for her sidearm, until he calmly shakes his head and tuts.

"Now, now. You won't be needing that here," he sings, holding out his hand for her Glock, as he tips his head towards the contraption is has hooked up to a beam on her old ceiling. She follows his eyes, eventually growing accustomed to the gloom in the open plan living room enough to see, with growing horror, that he has Castle tied to one of her dining room chairs and a high-powered, rifle crossbow rigged up at the far end of the room, the bolt aimed squarely at his head.

She hands over her gun without further argument, would pay any price at this point just to get to see Castle for a minute.

Tyson locks the door behind her and escorts her by the arm towards the dining room table.

Castle is slumped forward a little in the chair, his head lolled unnaturally to one side, and her heart is in her mouth wondering what on earth this monster has done to him.

"Wakey, wakey, Rick," Tyson announces, kicking the leg of Castle's chair, making him startle violently and sit bolt upright as the wooden legs scrape the floor and the vibration jars his spine.

When he turns wild, frightened eyes on Kate she almost cries out, has to strain to remind herself that she has to stay calm, not react, think clearly, be professional, stay rational for both their sakes.

"_Kate?_" whispers Castle, hoarsely, peering at her as if she is a mirage in the desert. He winces against even the small amount of light in the room, blinks a few times and peers at her again, as if checking she is still there and not a figment of his imagination.

She nods wordlessly, a lump forming in her throat, tears brimming in her eyes.

"Castle," she whispers back, lurching out of Tyson's grasp to run to him. "Castle," she sobs, throwing her arms around his neck, as he sits there, rigidly, his wrists and ankles taped to the chair, unable to hold her.

* * *

_*Note: IBIS is the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco & Firearms (ATF) ballistics database. DRUGFIRE is the competing database set up by the FBI. NIBIN is a single National Integrated Ballistics Information Network set up with the cooperation of both agencies. It is the AFIS of bullets, using headstamps, the info printed on the base of a cartridge to indicate size of ammo uses and manufacturer, and striation marks on expended bullets to match to a specific weapon._

* * *

_A/N: Dun, dun, dun... :O Liv_


	16. Chapter 16 - Face Your Demons

_A/N: Probably best to just go with this story right now and not try to second guess it. All will be revealed in time._

* * *

_**Chapter 16: Face Your Demons **_

Kate lets out a shuddering sigh with Castle finally in her arms, no matter how strange, outrageous and frightening this moment, and she holds him so tightly, her cheek pressed up against his, her nose in his collar. He smells unfamiliar, unlike himself: musty and stale in comparison to his usual fresh, clean, strictly held personal hygiene standards. He smells of _fear,_ she realizes. But she holds on tightly, until Tyson appears behind her and she feels the barrel of her own Glock forced up against her spine and she obeys the silent command, withdrawing with barely a whisper.

Castle sits deathly still the entire time, unyielding to her warmth, her embrace, her body, doesn't even react to her withdrawal.

* * *

When she pulls back and takes a moment to look around, she sees changes to her apartment she hadn't noticed when she first entered. The door to her bedroom has a heavy-duty hasp and padlock fitted to it, some furniture in the living room has been moved around, and then there's the crossbow lurking above them like a praying mantis: high-tech black carbon finish with a lethal looking broad head, three bladed, stainless steel bolt aimed squarely at Castle's head.

"Three hundred and fifty-four feet per second," says Tyson, following her line of sight and responding with a sickening excitement to her unasked question. "Draw weight of 225 pounds. Razor-thin, 0.027-inch-thick blade with hardened tip, 1.1875-inch cutting diameter… That bolt will take down a brown bear or a moose in the wild no problem. So, poor old Castle here…" he shakes his head and laughs, "No chance," he grins, laughing even harder when he sees the look on Kate's face. "But he's safe enough while he sits still."

Tyson has also taken her Alex Gross painting, 'Matasaburo of the Wind', down from its mounting. Like a naughty child told to stand and face the wall, the painting has been turned around so that only the back side remains visible; bare canvas stretched over wooden support straps, the bill of sale stuck to the crossbeam like a faded flyer pasted to a lamppost.

Tyson catches her gaze lingering there.

"So, you like what I did with the place?" he asks, waving the gun around. "I liked the vibe it gave off the day you showed me around," smiles Tyson, watching for a reaction from Kate. "Amazing how you can get away with pretty much anything wearing a necktie and a business suit."

"Amazing," says Kate, dryly, inwardly kicking herself that she failed to recognize him he day he came to view the place when she was still home.

The realtor had called about a last minute viewer who was prepared to sign a lease immediately and didn't have a list of decorating requirements, any pets or a truckload of his own furniture that would have required her to put her own stuff in storage like so many of the fussy, demanding, potential tenants they'd already looked at. So she agreed to show him round herself, too caught up in her own emotional turmoil over leaving Castle and starting a new job in a new city to really look at him long or hard enough to be able to pick him out of a line-up, let alone spot him for the serial killer she'd left for dead up on that bridge.

"Yeah, I like your style. Except for this depressing piece of crap," he tells her, gesturing at the painting with the gun. "Couldn't stand to look at it a second longer. Now, come. _Sit_," he insists, leading her to the chair that is set opposite Castle's.

* * *

"Cell phone," he demands, before she can move to sit down.

"Don't have one with me," replies Kate, catching Castle's blank stare and then determinedly looking away again.

"Do I have to pat you down, Detective?" threatens Tyson, an unsavory glint in his eye.

"Strip search me if you like," counters Kate, brazenly, sick to her back teeth of this guy and his blatant manipulation, taking a calculated gamble that it won't come to that.

"No. No, _that_ fun comes later," he grins, sending a chill of anxiety down Kate's spine. "A simple pat down will do for now, if you're not going to give up your phone willingly."

"Pat away, _Eric,_" she says, watching the predatory grin grow on Tyson's face.

"You liked that, huh? Poor little Eric Winters. Still, at least his short life wasn't all in vain. He still got to _be_ somebody at the end of the day."

"Yeah, I'm sure his mother would be so proud," replies Kate, witheringly, disgusted by his callousness in stealing the identity of a dead baby.

Tyson begins the pat down. He's pretty brusque about it at first, efficient, businesslike, doesn't linger on any one part of her body for too long, which she's grateful for. Until, that is, he sees Castle watching him as he works his way down the length of Kate's left leg, and then he slows, a mocking look appearing on his face.

"Shame you're kinda tied up right now, Castle. I'm sure your girl here could use a little…_hands-on_ treatment. It's been a while after all," he taunts the writer, working his way back up the other leg, more stroking than patting now, until he gets to her crotch, where he slides his hand between her legs to cup her.

Kate's eyes slam shut and she bites the inside of her cheek to fight the revulsion and anger that's coursing through her, forcing herself to breath steadily through her nose.

"_Watch!_" he barks at Castle, before purring, "See, she likes it," as he moves his hand slowly back and forth between Kate's legs, his gun hand pressing the Glock up against her kidney area.

She holds her breath as he moves upwards again, sliding the side of his hand in between her breasts.

"And what do we have here?" he asks, thrusting his hand down the front of her shirt to retrieve the two engagement rings hanging around her neck on the silver chain.

Kate is astounded Castle isn't reacting, hasn't yelled out, cursed, fought against his bindings, and so she opens her eyes to find him still sitting impassively in his chair. He's staring straight at them, but seems to see little or nothing of what's happening just feet from him.

"What did you _do_ to him?" barks Kate, glaring at Tyson.

"Relax. It'll wear off soon," he replies, thankfully losing interest in molesting her for now. "So?" he asks Kate, holding up the ring that Castle proposed to her with. "Does our boy get the answer he's hoping for? You're wearing it…in a manner of speaking. Does that mean it's a yes?"

Kate watches Castle with worried eyes, hates seeing him this docile, lifeless, so zoned out and disengaged. She has his engagement ring around her neck, that must mean something to her _and_ to him, but he shows no emotional reaction to the discovery.

"It's safer around my neck at work," is all Kate will say, snatching the ring from Tyson's fingers and dropping them both back down the front of her shirt.

"So, no answer for now," responds Tyson, ignoring her reply. "No matter. We'll get into the fine detail a little later."

Everything he says, no matter how benign, comes with a side order of threat, and Kate finds it exhausting: worrying about Castle's mental and physical state and coping with her own fears. She's kept constantly off-balance by Tyson's seesawing nature and unpredictable mood swings.

* * *

"Please, Detective. Take a seat," says Tyson, solicitously pulling the chair back for her, the one that's placed opposite Castle.

Only now does she take in the setup. The table has been laid as if for a romantic dinner for two: her own china placed on the red, linen tablecloth, complete with silverware and candlesticks with tall white candles in them. A small, earthenware vase she remembers buying on a trip to a Brooklyn flea market one sunny Sunday afternoon before Castle, when she had nothing better to do with her time, sits as a centerpiece, a small bunch of delicate flowers gracing its confines.

"So," says Kate, still trying to get a handle on Tyson's mood and find some equilibrium of her own, "these must have some meaningful name too, I assume."

She glances at Castle again, her elation at finding him, finally being in the same space as him, breathing the same air, all slowly draining away to be replaced by a bone deep anxiety; a kind of 'what the hell have I done?' creeping, gnawing regret.

She blames herself for all of this – for the state of their relationship, for leaving Castle alone to get into this mess in the first place, for even allowing him near her and the dangerous world she inhabits these last five years. He's a _writer_ for God's sake. He shouldn't be in this life-threatening predicament, any more than he should have been in any of the other dire circumstances they've found themselves in over the years. So, she boils it down to two facts: this is entirely on her, all of it, and she has to be the one to fix it, just as everyone has been telling her the past few days. But she's starting to wonder if handling it this way might be folly of the worst kind, if her personal guilt and her desire to make things right have clouded her judgment too much, and if her need to punish herself in the process has the potential to harm Castle even more.

In short, she's beginning to wonder if Jerry Tyson is more than she alone can handle.

* * *

"You like them?" grins Tyson, drawing her attention back to the small vase. "So smart. Isn't she smart?" he says, turning his gaze briefly on Castle, before reverting back to Kate. "I knew I could count on you to figure out my clues."

"The language of flowers? Yeah, not exactly what I would have expected from you. I'll give you that. But then I never expected you to come back from the dead either."

"Ah, well, you should know by now to expect the unexpected where I'm concerned, Detective," replies Tyson, with undisguised arrogance, dispensing an almost identical piece of advice to the warning Kate gave the FBI agents she spoke to earlier today.

"I also had no idea you were such a romantic," she adds, trying to draw him out more.

"Seemed fitting for you two love birds," replies Tyson, leaning in to lift the small vase off the table and admire the delicate blooms at close quarters. "Adam and Eve orchid," he tells Kate, shaking the arrangement slightly so that the tiny maroon-tipped petals tremble and bob their tiny little heads, as if sharing in her fear.

Kate's disgust and unease is growing by the second. Tyson is far too calm and in control for her liking; as if he knows a secret that she doesn't. She decides to attempt to unsettle him, to rattle him a little.

"Does Jessie like you bringing her flowers?" she asks, watching for any kind of reaction from Tyson. "I'll bet she does. Your girlfriend definitely struck me as a flower kind of girl."

She gets a reaction almost immediately. He places the vase back on the table with a solid thud then lifts the napkin from the plate in front of her, shaking it out violently, folding the square of fabric in half with a sharp linen-snap, before laying it across her lap.

"She's not my girlfriend," he insists, the barrel of the gun digging into her shoulder blade when he straightens up again.

"That's not what she says. In fact, she said all kinds of nice things about—"

"_Shut up!_" barks Tyson, and Kate's eyes widen, her brain silently pleased to have touched upon such a raw nerve so early in this torturous dance.

"I'm just calling it as I…"

"Well, don't. _I_ call the shots around here," he insists, going over to her bookshelf and grabbing a roll of silver-grey duct tape and a pair of scissors that have been left sitting there.

Kate's heart sinks.

He kneels down on the floor and begins taping one of her ankles to the leg of the chair and then repeats the same ritual on the other side, until she is firmly fixed to the seat. She assumes her hands will be next, in a mirror of Castle's, but for some reason he stops after securing her legs alone.

* * *

She takes the opportunity of Tyson's engagement in this task to look at Castle again. He's staring straight at her, and she thinks, believes, _hopes_ she might be seeing something of his personality starting to appear from behind the drugged glaze misting his eyes. His breathing seems slower, shallower than normal, and he seems diminished in a way she can't quite put her finger. But she feels herself flushing under his direct gaze nonetheless; that familiar visceral reaction to being observed by the one person in the world you feel bound to, attracted to, in love with and loved by.

"You cut your hair."

His voice is dead, rough from lack of use or yelling, she can't tell which, and without the honeyed warmth that always used to thrill her whenever he turned his attention completely on her. But these are the first words to make it past his dry, cracked lips since she arrived, and she smiles, touches her fingers self-consciously to the tips of the curls that now rest near shoulder level. She nods, tears filling her eyes.

"I did, yes," she rasps, her voice choked by emotion. "Do you like it?"

Castle nods back, barely, but his face refuses to join in, so she can't tell if he's being sincere or not. And she also can't tell him, I cut my hair because every time I looked in the mirror those long chestnut curls reminded me of you; of lying in bed with you, of feeling your fingers running through each strand, your mouth by my ear, your breath on my neck. She can't tell him any of this in front of Jerry Tyson, so all she says is, "Good. I'm glad."

He has the beginnings of a dark beard, a thickening layer of growth that coats his cheeks and jaw in an ungroomed, backwoodsman manner she knows he would never normally contemplate sporting. To comment would be to remind them both of his lone days of captivity and give some satisfaction to Tyson, no doubt. So she lets the most obvious change to Castle's physical appearance slide for now. She will touch her fingertips to his cheeks, stroke the dark scruff and kiss the length of his jaw when they are free, she promises herself, saying simply, "It's so good to see you," instead, her heart bursting with the truth behind every word.

* * *

"Now, now, kids," interrupts Tyson, startling Kate, reminding her of his presence when she has so quickly begun to lose herself in the man sitting opposite her. "This little scene is…_so touching_. But there'll be _no talking_ until I say so," he tells them, in the sickeningly light, chiding tone he's been using all along. Until he turns away and slams the roll of tape down onto the bookcase shelf with a loud crack, displaying yet another example of that unbalanced, quick-fire anger they've seen him exhibit in the past.

He turns back around, the mask of civility and control firmly back in place, and busies himself snapping the other napkin open and laying it across Castle's lap, carrying out this courteous charade like some demented maître d'.

"What are we doing here, _exactly_?" asks Kate, needing some kind of steer, some clarification as to what he has planned for them.

"Isn't it obvious?" he asks, straightening up the knife and fork at Castle's place setting. "We're having a romantic reunion. A little dinner à deux, so that you two can air your grievances, get things back on track. And then later…" he grins, looking off towards the bedroom.

Kate feels her stomach lurch and roll.

"Oh, come now, Detective," he teases. "It's not like you to be so shy or inhibited. I've heard you first hand…_over_ and _over_ again," he leers, trailing his fingers across the back of her jacket and then running the tip of his index finger down the side of her jaw until he tilts her chin up to look at him. "Play nice," he purrs, caressing her lower lip with his thumb before finally letting her go.

Kate swallows hard and looks at Castle, whose expression is one of complete puzzlement. She feels goose bumps rise all along her arms and she shivers, suddenly realizing how cold the apartment actually is; as if the heat has been switched off since she left. Castle has no idea about the bugs back at the loft, and thankfully no idea of the perverted lengths Tyson has employed to eavesdrop on their life.

"Now, for a little appetizer," says Tyson, heading off towards the kitchen and leaving them alone momentarily.

* * *

Kate keeps her eyes firmly on Castle, signaling silence, while she slowly lowers her hand to the tabletop to begin palming the knife that's been placed in front of her. She gets the handle inside the cuff of her shirt before Tyson speaks again.

"And don't even think about trying to stab me, Detective," he says casually, over his shoulder, making her stiffen in her seat. "That crossbow up there? Specially adapted for people with disabilities. Remote controlled and rigged with a hair-trigger," he informs her, holding up his hand to display a small black box taped to his wrist. "You so much as sneeze too loud, and he'll never wear a hat again."

* * *

_A/N: Dun, dun, dun... Liv_


	17. Chapter 17 - An Unimagined Horror

_A/N: I want to thank Jclimactic for discussing strategy with me on this one - yes, you can gloat now - and BlueOrchid96 for doing an early read through to catch my typos and ramp up the roller coaster effect._

_I've changed the rating for this chapter due to adult themes._

* * *

_**Chapter 17: An Unimagined Horror**_

Tyson returns to the table bearing two small plates of food. Kate looks down at hers, mistrusting.

"What's…?"

"Caprese salad," interjects Tyson, his face coloring slightly, as if she's about to insult his cooking and he actually gives a damn, this whole charade taking on an even deeper sense of the absurd.

She thinks about the report she'll have to write when this nightmare is over, both she and Castle intact, Jerry Tyson rubbed out from this earth for good if she has her way. That the man cooked for them might be the strangest fact, from a whole raft of strange facts they've encountered over the years, that she'll have to report to the FBI and the NYPD. Add that to your knowledge of serial killers, she thinks. Yeah, stick than it ViCAP: some of them like to cook for their victims; a special kind of perverted, domesticated torture.

* * *

He peels a thin layer of Saran Wrap off both of the pre-prepared plates of food that he's obviously been storing in the refrigerator, and then places a bottle of Balsamic vinegar and a bottle of Extra Virgin olive oil in front of them. The Buffalo mozzarella has been neatly sliced and then interspersed with colorful slices of large heirloom tomato. He's garnished the whole work of art with a few basil leaves, which are beginning to turn a dark green that verges on black, and brown around the edges.

Castle stares at his plate and then looks up at Tyson.

"What? Not up to your usual gourmet standard?" snaps Tyson, the chip on his shoulder never more evident.

"His hands are tied," Kate tells the serial killer. "How's he supposed to eat?"

"With his mouth."

"Oh, come _on_," says Kate. "He has a crossbow aimed at his head, he's tied to a chair, drugged, exhausted and clearly starving. You really think he's going to make a run for it if you let him have one hand free to fork a few mouthfuls of salad?"

"Nice try, Detective. But in the interests of romance, I think it would be better if _you_ feed him. Now _eat!_" he barks.

Kate stares back down at the food on her plate, leans forward to sniff it, but she has absolutely no idea whether the food has been tampered with or not. When she looks at Castle, he looks as if he doesn't care about poison or drugs or even hidden razor blades for that matter. The poor guy just looks starving.

"You hungry?" asks Kate, tenderly, doing her best to ignore the looming presence of Jerry Tyson.

He nods eagerly.

"Okay. Then lets do this," she says, cutting up a slice of tomato and one of mozzarella and loading them both onto her fork.

"I'm sorry," she tells him quietly, as she lifts the food towards his eagerly opening mouth.

She's not sure if she's apologizing for this humiliating situation, for leaving him, or for hurting him so badly with her selfish silence. At the end of the day she's just sorry for the whole damn mess.

* * *

Castle winces when he bites into the food, and Kate panics for a moment, until she feeds him a second forkful and notices the ulcers lining the inside of his mouth.

"Do they hurt?" she asks, glad now that they forwent the addition of Balsamic vinegar.

Castle nods. "Mmm, a little," he manages to say, slowly chewing the food.

"Taste okay?" she asks, cutting up more of the salad to give to him, wondering just how starved Tyson has kept him.

"Yeah, hungry," he tells her, looking down at the plate for the next mouthful.

"Right. Enough. Now _you_," insists Tyson, still determined to keep control of things, Kate can tell, that he'll stop at nothing to manage their moods as a way to stay on top of the situation, keeping them both on edge.

"He's not finished," insists Kate, watching a look of dejection come over Castle's face now that the meager flow of food looks like it's about to stop.

"He has for now. _Eat!_" he insists, prodding her back with the pistol.

Kate chokes down a couple of mouthfuls, but then she reverts to feeding Castle the first chance she gets.

"Did I say you could…?"

"You wanted a romantic dinner for two, didn't you?" Kate points out. "Then let me give him some more food. He can barely stay awake as it is. Let me do this for him," she insists, feeding Castle a slice of cheese without even waiting for an answer.

* * *

"How're you doing?" she asks, when Tyson abruptly clears their plates.

"Been better," replies Castle, in a roughened voice, the massive understatement creating a tiny glimmer of wry humor that finally makes it to his eyes.

Kate finds herself staring back at him, falling into the cloudy blue opacity of his irises all over again, falling, falling, and wondering how she ever managed to stop.

"I'm so sorry, Castle," she repeats, gingerly reaching across the table, only to find that there is nothing there for her to touch – no warm hand to hold or smooth forearm to stroke - nothing.

"Listen," she adds quickly, before Tyson can come back. "There are things I need to say to you, _important_ things. But I can't…" she shakes her head. "Not now. Not here," she pauses and looks over her shoulder when she hears the microwave ping. "Just…follow my lead, okay? And whatever happens, remember that I…"

"What did I tell you about_ talking?_" bellows Tyson, right by her ear.

Kate jumps in her seat, her ankles painfully jarring against the hard, wooden legs of the chair.

He puts two bowls down in front of them, heavily, and the microwave pasta slops stodgily and then slides back down the side of the porcelain.

"Spaghetti alla carbonara," he announces, with a flourish she can't begin to understand, it's so surreal.

He just microwaved a store-bought, TV dinner, she's pretty sure, and yet he's presenting it to them as if he made it himself from scratch and expects them to eat it as if this is the cute dining scene from Lady and The Tramp.

Tyson lights the two candles on the table in front of them with a box of matches Kate recognizes have come from her own kitchen drawer, and then he offers them both grated Parmesan cheese to go over the top over their pasta, never waiting for an answer, just scattering it with a spoon regardless of their wishes, in a pattern of control that has been the feature of this nightmarish absurdity from the very start.

He is trying to force his brand of perfect family life onto them, as if they can right his lifetime of unhappy wrongs and he can somehow direct them to do his will, like they are a couple of puppets.

"Don't let it go cold," he instructs, watching them both warily, as if awaiting the verdict of a Michelin restaurant critic, and not two hungry, frightened, captive souls.

* * *

Kate picks up her fork again and begins the slow task of feeding Castle by hand. He gives her a grateful look as she waits for him to chew each painful mouthful, feeding herself now and again in between times just to keep Tyson sweet, when in truth she feels as if she might vomit the whole lot back up if she thinks about what they are being forced to do for too long.

"So…_talk!_" prods Tyson, after five minutes or so of near silence, broken only by the quiet chewing of soft food.

"The food is good," lies Kate, filling in the quiet with the only thing she can think to say.

"Not to _me_. To each other," he corrects, pulling out a chair and sitting down further up the table to watch and listen to them.

She wonders why he's making them do this, if Jordan and Rachel are right – that she and Castle are supposed to be his vision of the perfect couple, or the embodiment of some parental fixation perhaps, and by walking away she unwittingly fuelled this obsession to bring them back together again. But to what end? Jerry Tyson has never been one for happy endings, so chances are he plans to force one of them to watch while he destroys what happiness they have left.

The thought chills her to the bone, and her hand trembles on the next mouthful of food she holds to Castle's lips.

"You okay?" he asks, and it's the first real sign of concern for her he's shown since she arrived.

Her eyes fill up at the sincerity in his tone, and at the knowledge that he still cares about her. But she forces herself not to breakdown.

"Been better," she replies, mirroring his earlier remark.

They smile at one another then, and it's a shy, grateful, familiar smile that begs the question, 'What are we doing?' and 'Where did it all go wrong?', followed closely by, 'Why aren't we together anymore?'

But Tyson interjects before any of these thoughts can be voiced, turning to Castle.

* * *

"Tell her what you told me," he prods.

Kate turns to look at Castle, and finds his face suddenly closed again, his lips pressed into a thin, serious line, his eyes wary and full of hurt.

"Castle?" asks Kate, gently.

"_Tell her!_" demands Tyson.

"Rick, look at me," counsels Kate, throwing Tyson a quick, vicious look. "Ignore him and look at me."

Castle does as she asks, but his expression is little softened.

"Talk to me," she says, in a quiet voice, her tone like velvet, cushioning the blow of whatever trauma he's reliving in his head.

"He thinks you don't love him anymore. That this job is more important to you. That it's over between you," pipes up Tyson, clearly fed up with the delay already.

"I thought you said this was _our_ romantic reunion?" challenges Kate. "You want us to talk? Then give us time and space to do that."

She didn't want to have this discussion, to do any of this publicly, but if he's determined to force the issue she wants to voice her _own _thoughts, not have Tyson control the psychological agenda.

"So talk!" he insists again.

"Is what he says true?" asks Kate of Castle. "Is that what you think?"

Castle shrugs despondently.

"Rick, we don't have a lot of wriggle room here," she says, slanting her eyes up to the crossbow. "I understand that you're hurt, you have every right to be. And I understand if you're mad at me, and don't want to give me another chance, but…"

"_No!_" interrupts Tyson. "That absolutely _cannot_ happen."

"I'm sorry?" says Kate, frowning at the unhinged serial killer sitting a few chairs away from her at her own dining room table, dictating how her love life is going to go.

"He wants you. I heard him say it. I heard him talking to his crazy mother, to his daughter, who hates your guts by the way," he takes pleasure in informing her.

"Leave my daughter out of this!" growls Castle, displaying the closest thing to his own personality that she had seen in the last couple of hours. "You promised. _No family_," he says through gritted teeth, staring at Tyson with animalistic hatred.

"You're hardly in a position to be issuing demands right now," taunts Tyson, as Kate eyes the remote control box warily.

"I've spoken to Alexis," Kate tells Castle, trying to keep everyone calm.

* * *

It's getting late. The shadows sprawled out across the living room floor are long and weary. Rachel knows she was heading back to the loft tonight to spend time with Martha and Alexis. If they're very lucky something will come up and she'll try to call Kate's cell phone, find she gets no reply, check in with Martha…

She crosses her fingers and hopes for the best.

"Is she okay? What did she say?" asks Castle, a look of quiet pain in his eyes, as if he already knows the answer, that his daughter's words won't have helped his cause any.

"She…" Kate pauses, gambling in her own head, trying to second guess the reaction each word will garner from Tyson and figure out how this should go.

If she upsets him, confirms that she doesn't want Castle anymore, that the job in DC is more important, will this hasten their end or prolong their lives until morning, until help can arrive? And if she reveals what's in her heart, how badly wrong she's gotten everything, manages somehow to make things up with him, what then? Tyson's veiled threat earlier involved the bedroom. She does _not_ want to think about him forcing them to sleep with one another in front of him. She couldn't do it and she's pretty sure Castle couldn't either.

"She's just a kid," she hears Castle say. "We both know how complicated real life can get. She doesn't understand…"

"But she's a smart kid. Always has been. She's angry on your behalf and I don't blame her for a second. The way I left…" Kate shakes her head, and lays down the fork.

The pasta is rapidly going cold, the creamy white sauce congealing, the spaghetti sticking together. And it's as if Tyson is no longer in the room with them. The whole sorry story begins to unfurl in Kate's head and she finds herself unable to stop the flood of feelings from coming.

"Why did you come back?"

Castle's question freezes her brain mid-thought before any words of supplication can make their way past her lips. What is the answer, the answer that will carry them forwards out of this with some kind of hope for the future? She doesn't know what to say.

"I've been working with Rachel since I got back," she says instead, hoping to deflect him. "Oh, and I met Kelly today. She seems like fun."

"Kate, why did you come back?" repeats Castle, alive to her tricks, weary of her avoidance tactics, and clearly determined not to let her off the hook this time.

She sighs, feeling defeated and inadequate.

"Honestly?"

Castle nods. "I think that would be best."

"Javi called me. Told me that he thought you… Look, that's not important right now, point is—"

"_Nothing_ is more important than that, Kate," interrupts Castle. "Not to me. I've spent days and nights here by myself…"

"Aww. Was I such poor company?" taunts Tyson.

Castle glares at him and turns back to face Kate again, as if the killer at their table is but a mere ticking clock, a momentary, chiming, inconsequential nuisance, and Kate can't begin to imagine what Castle has been through and overcome for him to behave so calmly, or is it recklessly, in front of the guy.

* * *

"I've had all the time in the world to think about this, to wonder, to ask myself…why now?" he continues. "You left with barely a word, no promises, no timescale, no 'once my walls come down' this time. Just left, expecting me to…_what?_ Wait some more? Pine? Go after you? What was it, Kate? My love wasn't enough? Our life didn't mean anything to you? Five years…_nothing_…"

He peters out, his flash of anger and accusation spent, the effort clearly having exhausted him.

"And now I just sound pathetic," he spits, his tone full of self-loathing.

"No, you don't. And you're right. You're right about all of it," soothes Kate.

She doesn't want to do this, any of it. Talking about herself - her faults, her failings, her weaknesses and her desires - in front of Dr. Burke was bad enough. But to do it in this kind of hostile environment, forced into honesty by a man who thinks nothing of killing women, complete strangers, in some sick attempt to punish his long dead mother? It's abhorrent, horrific, makes her feel violated, nauseated, makes her skin crawl.

But even if she had a choice, a way out, she can't say she'd take it now. Not when Castle's view of her has hardened to this point. She has to find a way to explain herself, to make him see that there is still something worth fighting for and that she is the one willing to do all of the hard work this time.

* * *

"Do you remember any of what went on here, Kate?" he asks her, and she snaps her head back up from her study of the tabletop to look at him. "Because chained to a radiator in _your_ bathroom for days, it was kind of hard not to relive it all."

"Tell her what you remember," interjects Tyson, leaning in like some demented couples therapist offering constructive psychological advice.

"Why don't you just _shut up_," says Kate, sick of feeling pain, sick of feeling guilt, sick of feeling so goddamned inadequate lately, in both her job and her personal life.

When Tyson strikes her with the back of his hand, her head slams to one side, ricocheting painfully on her neck. She feels a sharp stinging sensation in her cheekbone, touches her fingertips to her lip, smearing the warm trickle of blood leaking from the side of her mouth.

"Now look what you made me do," he barks, breathing heavily through his nose, a liability, unable to control his anger. "Why can't you just _answer_ the man's questions? He asked you if you remember, detective. Give him the courtesy of a reply."

Castle sits stone still throughout. She knows her partner of old would have been outraged by Tyson's abuse of her, and she can't tell if his passivity is due to a desire to keep things calm for both their sakes or if he is genuinely so broken now that he doesn't even care anymore.

* * *

"I remember, yes," she whispers, hoarsely, chastened. "Of course, I remember."

"_What?_" barks Tyson. "What do you remember? _Tell him_."

"I…I remember us being here together. Weekends and…and nights sometimes. You liked my sofa. You said it was softer and warmer than yours," she stumbles on, hunting for benign things to say. "We watched old movies together, ate popcorn, and sometimes you read to me."

These memories pain her and warm her up in equal measure. She wonders how they make Castle feel. She looks at his face and finds she can't read him as easily as she once could. Can three months apart really make that much of a difference? Has the gulf between them grown that large?

"What else?" pushes Tyson. "More! Need more detail."

Kate begins to get an eerie feeling about what he wants to hear from her. She looks pleadingly at Castle, but he sits looking back at her, an expression of complete impassiveness on his face.

"We…uh…we cooked together in my tiny kitchen. I remember you showed me your…your recipe for chicken parm. That trick you did with the garlic salt. And in the morning you sometimes made me pancakes," she smiles weakly, pain and regret for all she turned her back on shining in her eyes.

"_More!_" yells their captor.

"You brought Royal here once...before… Remember? When we shared custody of the dog. You bought him here and you held my hand. I didn't want you to leave that night," she confesses, out of nowhere.

Castle blinks and swallows and she sees the memory and her fresh confession catch him off-guard. This new secret seems to be enough to keep Tyson quiet for the time being, so she carries on in that vein.

* * *

"We fell in love here. Or more in love, I…" she pauses, pressing her long fingers to her lips to hold something back. "But I made mistakes. I lied to you, kept you at arms length for too long. You were my partner, Castle, and I shut you out of the important things. I'm so—"

"Why, Kate?" His voice, rough and deep and quiet, jars her, scrapes at her insides.

"_Why?_ Because I'm selfish, not used to sharing, too independent maybe? I don't know," she tells him, shaking her head.

"Try."

"I was ambitious, maybe, allowed my head to be turned by a new challenge. Forgot about the important things. My ego was flattered by the attention, I guess, and that was so wrong of me, when you willingly gave up your time, would have even given your life for me, I know. All those years you were right there, by my side… Truth is, I don't deserve you, Castle. I never have."

"That's _pathetic_," interrupts Tyson, disgusted by her confession, spraying the right side of her face with his spittle.

Kate wipes her cheek with her napkin and finds the white linen streaked with her own blood. She blots her lip and then dumps the ruined napkin on the tabletop.

"Maybe, but it's the truth," replies Kate, staring boldly at him.

"So, it's time for you to redeem yourself. Maybe you can still win him back."

"This _isn't_ a game show," Kate protests. "This is our _life_."

"And what a mess you've made of it. You should have thought about that before you left him to chase a career in D.C."

"Maybe, but these are _our_ lives to fix. Not yours."

"I think you'll find your lives are mine to do with as I please. You're not the one calling the shots anymore, Miss High and Mighty Federal Agent."

Kate shakes her head and gingerly touches her cheekbone where her face aches.

"So why don't you tell me exactly how we're going to fix this. I assume you have a plan beyond this pitiful dinner."

"Not so fast. You have to prove yourself worthy of him first."

"That's the point. I'm not worthy of him, I never was."

"Kate," interrupts Castle, rapidly shaking his head to shut her up.

"He wanted the truth," she tells Castle, pointing at Tyson. "And _you _above anyone _deserve_ the truth. I screwed up, Castle. I took a job I thought I wanted, left you hanging when you offered me a way to have everything. There's no getting past any of that. Even our friends think so."

"So, _what?_ We should just give up? Give up on everything we'd managed to achieve? You weren't the only one who screwed up, Kate."

"How do you figure that?"

"I finally tell you how I feel about you as you lie dying? Good job, Rick," he says sarcastically. "And then for months I'm too much of a coward, too stubborn or hurt or whatever to tell you again, when it really counts, when you might actually hear me and be able to do something about it."

"Yeah, well, we got past that," says Kate, not wanting to revisit that painful, frustrating period in their history.

"And then we stalled."

"Stalled? What do you mean?"

"I wanted a _life_ with you, Kate. And I thought that's what you wanted too. But we never talked about it, about where things were going. I just assumed we'd get there…somehow. And then suddenly it was too late. You took that job because I didn't offer you any alternative until it was too late."

She can't believe that he's blaming himself for all of this.

"Castle, you _proposed_ to me. That's hardly nothing."

"And what did you think at the time? Be honest. Here's a man overcome with love, who wants to make a future with me? Or here's a desperate attempt to hang on to a relationship because it's fading fast and I'm about to leave town?"

"Answer him!" barks Tyson, making her jump again.

"I…" Kate shakes her head, tears of shame swimming in her eyes. "I didn't think either of those things. I'd already decided to take the job. Your proposal…it just added to my guilt, Castle. That's why I left without giving you an answer, that's why I couldn't face hearing from you, that's why I didn't even open the letter you sent me. And that's why I don't deserve you."

"Oh, _boo hoo_! Now you're just boring me," complains Tyson, theatrically, getting up from his chair to pace around them. "So you're a bad, selfish person. I think we established that already," he taunts, impatiently, while Castle watches Kate with a wounded expression on his face. "Real question is – Do you love him? Hmm? Answer me that. In fact, don't tell _me_, tell _him_," he demands, leaning closer to jab Kate's shoulder with the Glock.

"Go on," he pushes, when Kate looks down at her hands, this the one emotional stumbling block she took so long to find her way around, while Castle waited patiently for her to catch up and fess up.

He knew how she felt about him, she's pretty certain, and she still can't understand her own reluctance to confirm it with the words he deserved to hear from her. But then there's so much about herself, her psyche and her motivations that she still doesn't understand.

* * *

"Aww. Looks like you got your answer, Cas—"

"More than life," interrupts Kate, startling Tyson for a change mid-mocking assertion. "I love him more than life," she adds, more certainly. "That's why I'm here, unarmed, to offer myself in his place. Let him go, Tyson, and take me instead."

"_No!_" roars Castle, the utter frustration at being secured to his chair never more evident than right now, as he struggles against the bindings restraining him in place. "Absolutely not."

"It's okay," Kate tells him, in the same tone she used when persuading him to leave her by herself, standing on a bomb. "I'm okay with it, honestly. This isn't your fight, Castle. Your family needs you. They deserve to have you back. All of you. I've kept you from them for too long. It's time for you to let go of me."

"Oh, how very noble of you," mocks Tyson. "Where there is love there is life," he says, repeating the Gandhi quotation he used on the gift he sent to the loft.

"No," whispers Castle, shaking his head at her, tears coursing down his cheeks.

"Yes," she whispers back, her own eyes shining and full to overflowing. "It's over."

* * *

"I've called Beckett's cell phone three times. She's still not answering."

"You trying to update her on the Mitchell case? Tyson's new alias?" asks Ryan, giving Esposito a worried look.

"Yeah. Rachel, Beckett say where she was going after she dropped you off?" asks Esposito.

"Straight home, I think. I told her to go spend some time with Martha and Alexis. Why?"

"She's not answering her cell," repeats Ryan. "We got a hit on a missing credit card for that dead guy patrol found a month ago in a dumpster over on Church Street: the financier, Matthew Mitchell. Korean woman at the bodega where the card was used sat down with a sketch artist, came up with this," says Ryan, holding up a black and white drawing of a guy with dark hair and sideburns.

"Once we saw that, she was able to identify Tyson from the latest pictures we have of him. Said he came in to her store to buy groceries and a roll of duct tape over a week ago. Been coming in pretty regular ever since."

"Let me call Martha, see if Kate's at the loft, maybe sleeping even, if she has any sense," offers Rachel.

She comes off the phone pretty quickly, looking more grim-faced than before.

"Martha hasn't seen her since this morning."

"You don't think…"

"Where's that bodega?" asks Rachel, something gnawing at her.

"Sixth Avenue, near Bleecker. Why?"

"That name…"

"Matthew Mitchell?"

"Yes. I've heard it somewhere… Wait a second. Kate's realtor called a bunch of times in the last couple of days. Left messages for her."

"So?"

"So she sublet her apartment to some guy while she's been in DC and he stopped paying the rent, even changed the locks."

"Money troubles?" suggests Esposito.

"Or he knows he won't be needing it much longer," suggests Rachel.

"So, what, you're saying her tenant is Jerry Tyson? _Nah_, Kate would have recognized him for sure."

"Really? Would you?" she asks, pointing to the photographs they have clipped to the murder board. "She thought he was _dead._ He's the last guy she'd be expecting to see. And look at the location of that bodega. It's just a couple of blocks from Kate's apartment. And the guy buys _duct tape_ with a dead guy's credit card? Nothing suspicious about that at all."

"Where's that M.E.'s report?" asks Ryan, starting to sound a little frantic.

"Here," says Esposito, tossing him the file.

"Matthew Mitchell, 34, cause of death: homicidal strangulation," reads Ryan. "Ligature marks consistent with the use of a three-strand twisted rope or braided cord."

"Fits Tyson's M.O. Do you still have that realtor's number?" asks Esposito, turning to Rachel.

"Somewhere," says Rachel, already scrabbling around her desk for her notepad. "Here, yes. Mrs. Shapiro. I'll call her. Get the name of Kate's tenant. Find out how he paid the deposit. Ryan, go find Danny Munro. Tell him to try and get a trace on her cell phone."

* * *

Kate closes her eyes and her own tears start to fall. She hates doing this to him, but she swipes the tears away angrily, takes a deep breath and turns to face their captor.

"Let him go, Tyson. You don't need both of us. Just let him go."

"No. No, _you_ don't get to dictate, see. You think I'd let you decide how this ends after all the bad decisions you've made? No way. That's not how the plan goes."

The room is almost dark now, just the orange glow from the streetlights leaking in through the windows, accompanied by the flickering yellow of the two candles still burning on the table in front of them, left to illuminate the living room.

Kate feels weighed down by a debilitating layer of fear and emotional exhaustion.

"No, my star crossed lovers. It's time for stage two of our evening's entertainment. Only this time, Castle gets to listen to you and me," he says, pointing the gun at Kate, a sleazy, evil grin on his face.

Something cold runs down her spine, the sick gnawing sensation in the pit of her stomach ratchets up a notch. She always knew she was putting herself in danger coming here alone, realizes her need to atone for past mistakes may have clouded her judgment. But this is starting to look far worse than she feared.

She tries to regard Tyson blankly, as if she doesn't understand, hasn't a clue what he means. But she can tell from the clever, predatory look in his eyes that he can see the horror scenarios that are running through her head quite clearly.

He abruptly gets up, goes back over to the bookcase to fetch the scissors and a pair of handcuffs she hadn't noticed before.

"That's right. Bedtime, Kate," he sings right by her ear, before he stoops to cut the bindings on her ankles. "I hope you're wearing something nice under there," he adds, caressing the curve of one of her breasts with the barrel of the gun.

"Shame you're kind of tied up right now, Castle, or I'd say you could come watch your girlfriend perform, old man. But then she can be pretty _vocal_ from what I've heard. So, I guess you'll just have to settle for listening in this time, get a little reminder of all the goodies you've had to go without these past months."

"_No!_ You sick _bastard_," spits Castle, eliciting a crazy burst of laughter from Tyson.

"Are you out of your mind? How exactly is this supposed to get us back together?" asks Kate, fighting the fear and the disgust surging up inside of her at the sick suggestion Tyson's making, with dry logic that poorly plays for time.

"It's not. It's going to _break_ _him_ for good," he tells her proudly, jabbing a finger in Castle's direction. "And I for one can't wait."

"_No!_" say Kate and Castle simultaneously.

"Oh, but you said you loved him. That you're willing to take his place, do anything to save him. _Blah, blah, blah_," he taunts, in a singsong tone. "Were you lying, Kate? All talk?"

"No. Of course not."

"Then it's time to prove it, Detective. Give it up and he lives."

"I sleep with you and you'll let him go?" she asks, racking her brain for some alternate way out of this mess.

"Kate, no. No way," insists Castle, his features contorted by pure, blind panic. "Don't do it."

* * *

She looks at him then, so tenderly. She came here to fix things, to offer herself up as a replacement for him if she had to. It's time to step up, do whatever it takes to keep him alive.

"Rick, it's okay. I'll be okay," she tells him, her eyes shining fiercely, still trying to pull some last minute miracle out of thin air.

"No. No, he'll only kill you anyway. You _know_ that," argues Castle. "Please, listen to me. Don't put yourself through this. Not for my sake. I'm begging you. Don't do it, Kate. _Please._"

"Your choice, Kate," murmurs Tyson, calmly, like the devil on her shoulder, whispering in her ear. "Wanna take that gamble? I can always kill him right now if you prefer. I'll even let you watch."

"No. Don't," she says, holding up her hands. "I'll do anything. But not this. Please?" she whispers, begging him now. "You cannot be serious."

"Oh, I'm deadly serious," he insists. "Now get in there and take off your clothes. Castle and I have a little unfinished business to tie up. I want you lying face down on the bed when I get in there. Now, go. I'll be right in, _honey_," he leers, giving her a departing shove.

"Oh, and Kate?" he calls out, almost as an afterthought. "Don't even think of trying anything stupid. Or that bolt will pierce his brain before you can fully form the thought," he reminds her, holding up the hand with the remote attached.

* * *

Castle stares at her, his lips slightly parted, a pleading look in his eyes. If ever she needed to get them out of this. Because she knows there's no way he's letting them walk out of here alive, rape or no rape. This is not a man who bargains, this is a man who takes what he wants and then destroys what's left behind, before moving on to his next victim.

"I'm sorry," mouths Castle, as she reaches the door to the bedroom. He swallows hard, and she sees his Adams apple bob, more tears running down his face, as Tyson pulls a needle and a vial out of his pocket and begins loading the syringe up with the neuromuscular-blocking agent, Norcuron.

"_No!_ What are you doing to him?" yells Kate, turning back around to head in Tyson's direction.

"Ah, ah, ah!" yells Tyson, holding up his arm, trigger finger poised. "A little temporary muscular paralysis while we have our fun, or a stainless steel bolt through his skull? Your choice, detective?"

Kate closes her eyes, shakes her head, this choice no choice at all.

"Why are you doing all of this?" she asks, her voice hoarse, as if she's been screaming for hours on the outside as well as on the inside.

"You don't know?" he asks, looking genuinely puzzled that she hasn't worked it out already. "_Go_. _Strip_. We can talk in bed," he tells her, jabbing the needle into Castle's neck without further ado.


	18. Chapter 18 - Mind Games

_A/N: Reminder of the rating increase in the last two chapters for adult themes and language. I appreciate that violence of any kind can be difficult for some people to read, threats of sexual violence especially so. I did bear that in mind when writing this chapter, please be assured._

_Thank you for reading._

* * *

_"Lock up your libraries if you like; _

_but there is no gate, no lock, no bolt that you can set upon the freedom of my mind." _

_**- Virginia Woolf**, 'A Room of One's Own'_

* * *

_**Chapter 18: Mind Games **_

Kate reluctantly leaves the living room to enter the bedroom, her own gun turned against her, no choice. Her last painful image is one of Castle's head tipping slightly to one side, his eyes still wide open, fearful and wild, the rest of him relaxed, propped up by his bindings, boneless and unmoving.

She needs to find something, anything to get them both out of this nightmare before things can escalate any further. But Tyson has her gun, he has the remote for the crossbow, and he has…

She slams to a halt just over the threshold of her old bedroom. The place is almost bare. She packed away most of her personal belongings before she moved out, put them in storage, but she did leave pictures on the walls and some knick knacks to brighten the place up. All of that is gone, stripped away until only the bare furniture is left. Except for one minor addition that causes a trickle of cold sweat to run down her spine.

The wall to her right, the one above her bed, has holes drilled in it, a patchwork of multiple niches, each about the size of a small brick, that have been packed with what looks like parcels of C4 explosive. The modeling clay-like, plasticized material has been pressed into each roughly drilled slot and then secured across the middle with a single strip of duct tape. A network of wires snakes back and forth long the wall, linking each of the packets of explosive to one central detonation device. There must be enough material here to take out the whole building, she estimates.

_Holy shit!_

She stares at this new work of art – all Tyson's doing - thinking this just might be a game changer. She tries to slow down her racing heart, tries to put her professional head back on, to stomp on her fear and think this through rationally. She was hired by the Federal Government for her ability to operate calmly under extreme pressure, yet ever since she got back to New York she's been letting her emotions get the better of her; thinking with her heart rather than her head. If she wants to have another chance at making a life with Castle, she has to save his life, save both their lives first.

Time for calm, cold, clear-cut thinking…and a little of the dark steel she's drawn upon in the past.

* * *

The team has been working on an enhanced profile of Jerry Tyson ever since Castle was first taken, using Jordan Shaw's advanced profiling experience to create a more rounded psychological picture of him. The detailed outline they came up with was based on his past offending behavior. Minute details of every crime they already had on file were studied and dissected for patterns, motivations, triggers, predilections, signs of escalation and anomalies. The new information they'd managed to gather since he disappeared was fed in too – aliases, resources, jobs, relationships.

The guy is a serial killer, of that there is no doubt: cunning, intelligent, resourceful, determined, ruthless, obsessive, driven and with an inferiority complex only matched by his boundless sense of arrogance. He fixated on his mother for years, let that broken relationship drive and shape who he became as a adult, and now he's stuck on Castle; on Castle, and Kate's own personal relationship with him, and he'll stop at nothing to damage or destroy both.

They have no prior knowledge of him as a sexual predator; no historic proof or evidence that he has ever perpetrated any kind of sexual violence against any of the women he picked out, tracked down and strangled in their own homes. No actual proof. And though Jessie Calman may have said they had an active, sometimes rough sex life, she also admitted that he almost choked her to death in the throws of a sexual act; that he squeezed her neck so hard she blacked out. So why did he stop there?

Tyson may have needs that lead him to form one-sided attachments with women, but if Jessie's tale is typical, it seems he can't restrain himself from reverting to his deviant behavior for too long, since that's clearly how he gets off. With erotic asphyxiation as his kink, a dangerous one that ultimately leads to the woman involved ending up dead, Kate wonders, why not Jessie? Why was she spared?

Kate's eyes dart around the room looking for a way out of this, and as she does so, one other thing Jessie Calman told her pops back into her head, and she stores it, thinking it may just come in useful at a later point.

* * *

The bed is but a bare mattress now, covered by a white sheet, since Kate removed her own bedding before she rented out the apartment. Twin D-ring shackles have been bolted onto her dark wood headboard; their stainless steel back-plates screwed in so tightly that the force used to secure them has splintered the wood in places.

Looking at the bed and the damaged wall above she now understands where the noise complaints must have come from.

She glances off towards the bathroom. The light is still on, the door ajar, and she can see a discarded water bottle lying on the floor, a single towel folded into a pad that Castle presumably used to sit or sleep on. She can't begin to imagine the terror he must have gone through spending all those hours alone, shackled, never knowing if help was going to come, completely reliant on Jerry Tyson for food and water, even a little twisted human company.

She turns away, needs to get her head back on track again, stop the introspection, the blame, and the fear and regret from bleeding through to cloud her thinking until this is over. They spent many happy hours here together, getting to know one another, laughing, loving, but she can't let those memories get under her skin right now, since that's precisely what Tyson wants, what he wanted all along when he picked out this venue. She has to harden her heart and blank her mind in order to fight her way through this nightmare for both their sakes.

She hears Tyson talking in the other room, and her heart leaps into her throat. She can't hear distinct words, just the menacing tone behind them as he presumably taunts Castle with the depravity he's about to unleash on her, before leaving him slumped in the chair, broken and powerless to help. He knows enough about their partnership that this is the single, worst thing he could do to Richard Castle – render him incapable of helping her, rescuing her, defending her in any way.

* * *

"You're still dressed," Tyson says, freezing her on the spot momentarily when he appears in the bedroom doorway, his voice lowered to a more intimate tone. "Do you never listen? I told you to—"

"I thought you might like to watch," interrupts Kate, saying the first thing that comes into her head, playing the long game, trying to buy more time.

But she gets a surprising feeling of power the second she sees the response to her suggestion in Tyson's eyes. He looks pleased, a little gloating even, as if he has finally broken her down enough that she is ready to bend to his will. He feeds on control and the careful application of fear. She files that thought away with all the others, watching his intelligent form of cruel, unfeeling hatred play across his face; the focus of his happy-sadism centered on his smiling mouth and flashing eyes.

"So…you love him that much?" he asks, crossing his arms as he leans casually against the doorframe, the Glock pointed towards the ceiling. "Ready to take one for the team, Beckett?" he grins, stepping over the threshold into the bedroom and coming ever closer.

Kate takes an involuntary step backwards and finds herself sitting down hard on the edge of the mattress when the backs of her knees collide with the bed. She looks around for anything that might vaguely be construed as a weapon, silently cursing that she opted for antique-style, wall-mounted sconce lights instead of moveable bedside lamps with heavy glass or brass bases she could have used to smash his skull in.

"Your eclectic clutter was…endearing," he tells her, witheringly, sarcastically. "But I prefer the stripped back, bare, simple look. Much more revealing, don't you think?" he says, the double entendre in his words not missed by Kate as he comes closer still, until he tips her chin up with the black polymer nose of her own gun.

They stare at one another for a long, heated, painful moment. Kate can feel her heart racing under her skin, blood pounding in her ears, her mouth feels arid, and then she hears her own breathing, fast and heavy through her nose.

"Look," she says, turning her head away to the side and pulling back slightly so that the gun slips out from under her chin, "we both know you're going to kill me anyway. So why don't you just get it over with."

"And deny your partner the excruciating pleasure of listening to you lose yourself in the throws of passion…? One. Last. Time?" he grins, running the tip of the pistol down between her breasts.

"He doesn't deserve this. He's done _nothing_ wrong," growls Kate, anger flushing her face and making her clench her fists by her sides.

"Oh, but he has. That he exists _at all_ seems so wrong to me. Now _strip!_" he commands, stepping back to give her room to move.

* * *

Kate can't think of any way out, but she's determined not to give up. Engaging him in a discussion, even one that might enrage him, seems like the best delaying tactic she can think of.

"That crossbow out there…that's not the fate you have in mind for him, is it?" she says, staying as still as she can, until he kicks her foot and waves the gun at her head.

"You really don't want to risk that. _Boots_," he grunts, kicking her foot again.

Kate lifts one leg up, about to perform the slowest strip tease in history, if she has her way. She will do this for Castle, if that's what it takes to save his life. She knows that her own mind can be a powerful tool, that she is resilient, can compartmentalize, has overcome so much personal trauma and fear in her time that she can survive this humiliating, degrading experience, if that's what it comes down to. But she's not so sure that she can say the same about Castle. She's not certain that he would ever be able to forgive himself for not being able to protect her from this, and she's not sure he will ever be able to look at her in the same way again, let alone touch her or make love to her. Jerry Tyson may just have found the perfect route into hell for both of them; leaving them alive, but damaged irreparably and inevitably torn apart.

* * *

"Jessie seems like a nice girl," she pipes up, wetting her parched lips, trying to turn his own psychology against him. "Do you love her?"

Tyson seems thrown by the question, as if she just asked him to describe the intricate workings of particle fusion, not comment on the only functioning human relationship he seems to have going for him so far.

"Because I know she loves _you_," Kate continues, taking a leaf out of Castle's playbook – just keep on talking, wear them down, bore them to death if necessary - as she slowly lowers the zipper on her left boot, tooth-by-tooth. "Women can just tell these—"

"_Shut up!_" he bellows, shaking his head at this flash of anger, and it's as if he can't control his own emotions even when he wants to, as if he hates that side of himself even.

"I know it takes time to own up to loving someone, believe me," Kate powers on regardless. "It makes you feel weak and vulnerable, being so…so exposed in front of another human being. It opens you up to a lot of hurt. When my mother died…"

"_When my mother died…_" mimics Tyson, in a whiny approximation of a Kate's voice.

"That's something we have in common. You and I. No mother…and loving someone close to us, the fear that comes from that…"

"_Fear?_ I'll show you _fear,_" promises Tyson, seizing her by the arm. "Now quit stalling, and get your clothes off, Detective."

He brandishes the gun at her and she has nowhere to go anymore, no escape route, no means of retaliation other than to use her own physical strength and that will mean certain death for both herself and Castle, of that she is in no doubt.

So, she makes her choice, choosing to believe that it is _her_ choice, since that will be one of the psychological tricks she will need to survive this depravity in her own head; that she still has some power, that she isn't being completely controlled and violated by Tyson. No matter what comes next, she will not let him control her thoughts or feelings.

"Okay," she says, holding her hands up. "Okay, but just…give me a little space. Get the gun out of my face so I can do this."

* * *

"Anything?" asks Rachel, leaning over Danny Munro's shoulder and quite literally breathing down his neck.

They are all gathered in the conference room, the images from Danny's laptop replicated on the large screen at one end of the room.

"Our best bet is that her phone is still switched on. But if this guy has her, chances are he's taken her cell phone and destroyed the SIM. In which case we have no… Wait! You little beauty," he grins, rapidly tapping on the keyboard.

Agent Munro pulls up a grey screen on the monitor. A rudimentary map plots out Manhattan in a blocky, basic, Legoland-style format.

"What's that?" asks Ryan, crowding in beside Rachel.

"_That_ is the tracking app I installed on Beckett's phone a couple of days ago. Martha and Alexis have it too."

"_I'm Drunk, Come Find Me_?" asks Esposito, reading off the large screen. "What the hell kind of…"

"Civilian technology is just as effective, often better at getting the job done than the bug-riddled, complicated, expensive stuff the government churns out. This app is simple, but effective. It works on GPS positioning with an extra alert element added. If her cell phone is still switched on, we should have an accurate record of her last location. Or at least the last location she left her…"

"_Bingo!_ That's a block from her apartment," says Esposito, pointing to the red arrow on the screen.

"That can't be a coincidence," says Rachel.

A large orange panic button sits off to one side of the screen, looking something like _the _nuclear button. There's a slider beneath it with a happy face at one end and a sad face at the other. The slider has been moved towards the sad face.

"Good girl, Beckett," murmurs Gates. "At least she's given us a clue, something to go on. Okay, let's get suited up folks. Anyone been to Beckett's apartment before?" the Captain asks, immediately looking to the guys.

Ryan and Esposito both nod.

"Okay, good. I want you to brief the others on the layout. We don't know what we're walking into here, so the more information we have the better prepared we'll be."

"I'm calling in SWAT," says Jordan Shaw, and Gates nods her agreement. "That son of a bitch has just made his last stand."

* * *

Castle can hardly see anything, and he can hear very little right now, a fact that terrifies and placates him with every swing of the pendulum that has become his barely beating heart. He's unable to move a muscle, his drooping eyelids included by this point, and so he focuses on trying to breath, a feat in itself, waiting for the anesthesia-grade neuromuscular blocking agent to wear off as it has before.

This must be what locked-in syndrome feels like, he imagines. He feels dissociated from his own body, as if his mind is adrift in a warm ocean, the water at blood temperature so that he feels not a thing, other than the gnawing, ever present fear for Kate. And it's a fear he cannot escape, his writer's imagination too loud, too clear, too vivid to be of anything but a torture to him at this point.

Seeing her again has brought all sorts of feelings flooding to the surface, feelings he tried to destroy since he's been in captivity, feelings Tyson taunted him with, drip-feeding little snippets of memory and tiny, painful snatches of their personal conversations into his head to torture him just that little bit more, planting seeds of doubt that germinated, growing more monstrous with each passing, lonely hour.

Castle always thought of himself as psychologically robust, impervious to suggestion. He now realizes that he's just an ordinary Joe: as impressionable, malleable, feeble-minded and easily persuaded as the next guy. And that knowledge shames him. He wants to be like his father – Teflon coated, tough, strong, courageous, able to face up to anything and survive. But his weak spots are the things his father has eschewed all these years, and he now understands why. A wife, a family – these things are incompatible with violence and warfare. What Kate's facing in the other room right now is the ultimate, low tech, long-used weapon of war; a way to control, manipulate, break, humiliate, cow and degrade the enemy.

A tear runs down his face and his right eyelid flutters slightly. If he could scream out he would, he's screaming inside. But the only path open to him is to fight to breathe, to fight the weight he feels pressing on his chest, smothering the rhythm of his heart; his broken heart.

* * *

"Off. Come on, move!" insists Tyson, waving his gun down the length of Kate's legs.

She has her boots off, her feet pale and bare, and he wants her jeans next.

She flicks her eyes up to the wall above the bed and Tyson's gaze follows hers.

"Explosives?" she asks, fingering the buttons on her jeans. "That's going to make one hell of a…"

"Insurance policy. Now, shut up. Stop delaying. Get these off. Or do I need to come do it for you?" he threatens, taking a step closer.

Kate pops the button, but her mind is disengaged from the task. Explosives. A big undertaking; like the spectacular exit Tyson tried to make the last time up on the bridge. Something gnaws at her brain and she tries to quiet her head enough, to still the panic enough to figure out what she's not seeing.

Dr. Burke talked a lot about transactional analysis during some of their sessions as a way to help her understand and manage her PTSD. He explained that everyone has three ego states – parent, adult and child – and that when her attacks were at their worst, she had to learn to control them by using her adult ego state to parent that frightened child she'd reverted to. She needed to apply the behaviors, thoughts and feelings from the here and now to overcome the issues and fears learned back in childhood. She tries to apply the same thinking now, using logic and fact to overcome her fear.

* * *

Tyson watches her as she peels the jeans down her legs. She's wearing boyshorts, and never was she so glad for their increased coverage, as she lets the hem of her shirt fall as low as it will go over the front of her underwear. His unrelenting gaze is exposing, nonetheless.

"Now the shirt," he says, flicking the gun inside the open portion of her collar near her exposed throat, beginning to peel it down towards her shoulder.

Kate's fingers tremble slightly as she works each button free of its mooring as slowly as she can, always playing for time.

"Speed it up. This isn't some sleazy strip tease," he barks.

Then what exactly is it, she wonders, eyeing Tyson's demeanor. If this is his thing, he's showing little or no signs of excitement or arousal. In fact, he's exhibiting impatience over anything else.

"Drop it on the floor," he tells her, when she holds the shirt out to him, trying to force him to confront what he's doing to her.

She has a light grey camisole on under her shirt, and a bra on beneath that. She stands still and as proud as she muster, forcing her arms down by her sides, her jaw set firm, determined not to cover herself up or show how much effort this is costing her.

He runs his eyes over her body, from her feet all the way up her legs, and then he lingers on her eyes, an ugly, smug sneer on his face. She tries to keep her own expression blank, to give him no satisfaction, to show no fear.

"You really would do anything for him, wouldn't you?" he says, in such a disparaging way that it makes her sound weak and pathetic, instead of strong and selfless.

"Hey, _Castle?_" he yells, stepping over towards the bedroom door, the gun still trained on her. "You getting all this? Your girl's prepared to give up her honor for you, old man. If that isn't love," he says, shaking his head.

"Why isn't he talking? Why doesn't he say something?" asks Kate, her own panic mounting with concern for him over her own wellbeing, when Castle makes no sound from the other room. "What did you give him, you son of a—"

"_Shut up!_" yells Tyson, swinging across the bedroom to strike her across the face.

* * *

Kate falls backwards onto the bed and Tyson keeps coming after her.

He flips her over onto her front, dragging her by one arm up to the top of the bed, and then he cuffs her to the shackle point secured to the headboard.

"Time's up, _bitch_," he says, pulling a knife out of his back pocket and flicking it open.

"_No_," moans Kate, struggling with her free arm, kicking out her legs, until he kneels in the middle of her back, pinning her to the mattress. "_Get off me!_" she yells, thrashing as violently as she can, while the weight on top of her increases.

He takes her other wrist and cuffs it to the other bracelet, ratcheting it closed good and tight, his breathing coming in hard, panting bursts with the effort is takes to keep her restrained.

"Time to get this party started," he hisses near her ear, his rank, stale breath curling around her nose and mouth.

"Please," begs Kate, "I'll do anything. Just _help him_."

"Help him? Oh, I'm going to give him a little help he'll never get over," he says, getting off her back to kneel beside her on the bed.

He takes the knife and he grabs the hem of her camisole in the other hand and he rends the fabric all the way up her back, the ripping sound unnaturally loud in the quiet of the bedroom as he quickly splits the garment in two. He scores her skin with the tip of the blade as he clears the last couple of inches below her shoulder blades.

Kate screams out in pain when the knife cuts into her flesh.

Castle can hear everything, tears run down his face as his brain attributes horrific scenes to every new noise drifting through the apartment from Kate's bedroom.

Tyson grabs both her ankles and drags her down the bed, as she cries out, "_No, no, no_," thrashing and kicking at him with all her might.

He goes to the dresser drawer and removes a couple of lengths of rope, which he uses to secure her ankles to the posts at the bottom of the bed. She can't move anymore, her body twisted at an awkward angle near the top where both hands are cuffed to the bed. She has never felt so vulnerable or so powerless in her life.

* * *

"Feeling scared yet?" he whispers, right by her ear, the tip of his knife flicking back and forth over the bare skin just below her bra strap. She feels a trickle of blood work it's way down her back and then careen off to one side, until it soaks into the sheet below.

"Still love him enough to want to take his place?"

When he bends closer to hear her answer, Kate spits in Tyson's face, and he laughs outrageously.

"I think she might be wavering, buddy," he calls out the door to Castle. "You're not in the clear yet. I'd start praying if I were you."

"If you're going to do it, just get it over with," gambles Kate, hoping to God Jessie Calman was right.

She twists her head around to look back at Tyson, and he eyes her darkly.

"What? Lost your nerve?" she asks, staring straight into his eyes. She drops her gaze lower, lets it linger level with his crotch, and then she fills her voice with as much sarcasm as she can muster. "Yeah, Jessie said you had trouble in that department. Impotency's such a turn-off in a man," she taunts, bracing for the next blow.

But instead of striking her, he grabs her by the hair, and she cries out in pain when he forces her head back, the tip of the knife blade digging into her lower spine. He runs the knife lower, cutting into the top of her underwear, smearing blood from the tip onto the light grey cotton of her shorts.

"Time to show your boyfriend what you're made of," he says, reaching past her to hit a button on the stereo system he has set up on the nightstand.

* * *

He tugs her hair hard again, his knee pressed into her back, and she grits her teeth, tries to stay quiet, doesn't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he's hurting her. But he yanks even harder and she cries out once more, her body shaking with the effort it takes to arch her back enough to stop him from ripping her hair out of her scalp by the roots. He presses the tip of the knife to her neck and she whimpers loudly, thinking this is it, just as a series of echoing, grunting moans fill the bedroom with a riot of sound, freezing her.

"Yeah. That's it. Make it easy on yourself. Time to give in, Kate. You know you want to," he tells her, breathing loudly next to her ear.

He crawls over her body, his weight pressing down on her, the knife still held to her throat, and then he turns up the volume on the stereo.

That the sounds are sexual is immediately unmistakable; the woman cries out in ecstasy and the man answers with a grunting thrust. Their rhythm is steady, they are completely uninhibited in the noise they make, and at first Kate fears Tyson might be using this soundtrack as a way to get himself aroused so that he can do to her what he's been threatening to do all along.

But then he presses down on her again, his rough cheek burning hers and he whispers, "Recognize anyone?"

The volume goes up some more, and she can hear panting, heavy breathing, cries of '_Oh fuck, yes'_ and then a long shuddering moan. When the male voice says, '_That's right, let me hear you. Tell me how much you want this_,' she freezes. She knows that voice, in fact, she knows both those people.

Tyson grins insanely at her when he sees the realization dawning on her face.

"Feeling _violated_ yet?" he grins, trailing the knife up and down her spine. "Come on, detective. _Beg_ for it," he demands, loudly.

"Get off me you _sick bastard!_" yells Kate, nauseated by the knowledge that he bugged Castle's home and then recorded them in bed together.

"Good girl. Now, _louder_," he hisses in her ear, pulling her hair again to get her to cry out.

* * *

Castle is going through a living hell in the next room. He can hear what he thinks is the unimaginable happening, and he's struggling to breath properly. The last time Tyson drugged him like this the effects weren't nearly so debilitating or so long lasting. The fact that he's completely incapable of helping Kate makes him want to beg for this whole nightmare just to be over. He doesn't want to live anymore if this is the price she's forced to pay to save him.

* * *

"You talk of love and then you desecrate the whole idea," he hisses, forcing her to lie still and listen to him. "You women don't know the meaning of the word," he spits, as the pace of her own love-making with Castle climbs towards a climax on the recording, and the whole scene is monstrous. "He begged me to kill him rather than bring you here, did you know that? Think he finally saw you for the selfish bitch that you are, everyone one of you the same. You give birth to us and then you abandon us one way or another, every single time, to another man, another city, another child, another job. I _despise_ what you are. Your entire weak, predatory, sinning, shameful sex."

Spittle flies and he pants his way heavily through this hate-filled tirade against women.

Then Tyson puts his hand around her throat and she feels him begin to tighten his grip steadily, one of his knees pressed in between her thighs, the other squeezing her right hip hard, pinning her ruthlessly beneath him.

"Know what it is to fear, _bitch!_" he yells in her ear, the words ricocheting off the brick walls of her bedroom. "Any time, any place…_know_ I'll be watching you. So keep looking over your shoulder," he hisses, "because I'll be watching and I'll be listening and not a day will go by when you won't think of me. And _him?_" he adds, pointing in the direction of the living room. "He'll have to live with the knowledge of his own inadequacy. That he couldn't save you this time. Hell, he couldn't even save himself," Tyson laughs, stroking her cheek with the knife blade, his other hand still wrapped around her throat.

"And there is no way he'll ever believe you didn't enjoy this little tryst of ours. I've seen to that. Pour enough poison in a man's ear for long enough and they get a taste for the stuff. He's addicted. And don't think your pretty words will save him this time."

"He'll never believe you," chokes out Kate, her voice a rasping hiss as she fights for breath, defiant to the end.

"You left him once and you'll do it again. _That's_ what he believes. Because he doesn't think he's good enough for you, never has. Little Miss Perfect, the kick-ass detective. Not so kick-ass now, are you?" he taunts, squeezing her windpipe hard one last time before suddenly releasing the pressure on her back, leaving her gasping for air, as he clambers off her.

* * *

Kate feels like she could float up to the ceiling, were it not for the bindings still anchoring her to the bed. But finally having him off her body is a welcome relief. The recording is nearing its peak she can tell from her own rhythmic moans and Castle's throatier, deeper grunts, their rhythm faster now, the few snatched words and rushed kisses more desperate and breathless. It's their love-making, their intimacy, but in this context it makes for a sickening travesty.

"Where are you going?" asks Kate, when Tyson withdraws towards the bedroom door, her skin growing cold, goose bumps prickling her exposed flesh, the fear of uncertainty returning at what he might do once out of her sight.

"Don't miss me too much. I'll be around. But now it's time to go," he tells her, his voice mockingly light and cheerful as he places her Glock down on the dresser.

"Oh, and don't count on being rescued if that thing blows," he adds, as something of an afterthought, waving his remote in the direction of the wall above the bed, leaving her once more in terror for her life.

Castle barely feels the air move as Tyson passes through the apartment close to him en route towards the front door. He still can't open his eyes and he's getting weaker by the second from the restricted amount of oxygen reaching his lungs. He's on the point of passing out when he hears the lock click…and then nothing.

"_Castle!_" yells Kate in terror, to the surreal accompaniment of their own peaking sexual act. "_Castle!_" she yells again, her voice breaking, pausing to listen for any signs of life. "_No!_" she sobs, falling dejectedly onto the mattress face down, finally giving in to fear and exhaustion when there's no reply.

* * *

Tears course down her cheeks and her nose runs furiously. Her arms are aching and she begins to shiver after a few moments of deadly silence that are broken only by her own taunting panting breaths, as the flood of adrenalin wears off and the pain starts to kick in.

She's still lying that way, unable to tell how much time has passed, when she hears a loud hammering on her front door. She hears her name being called out, then the loud report of a battering ram exploding through the wood, splintering the door apart.

Next comes a flood of feet, heavy boots pounding on her wooden floor, voices calling out, loud exclamations when the team discover Castle trussed to the chair.

"_Bomb!_" she yells out in warning, the only thing she can think to say clearly.

"In here," she hears the voice of Rachel McCord cry, accompanied by a march of feet.

But as soon as the detective thrusts her head around the doorframe and Kate looks up at her, her eyes wide with fear, relief and humiliation, Rachel comes to a halt.

The recording of her having sex with Castle is playing on a loop. Rachel quickly takes in the scene: Kate's state of undress, the bloodstained sheets, her bruises, ripped underwear, and she bars the doorway.

"Okay, out! Everybody out!" she instructs firmly, blocking their path.

Kate hears Esposito protest, Ryan right at his back insisting on getting in.

"Help him. Please. The crossbow… Please, you have to help him," whispers Kate, hoarsely, towards Rachel and the boys.

The boys leave them alone once they fully take in the scene, and since Rachel basically insists that they really have no choice.

* * *

"Shhh, it's okay," soothes Rachel, running a hand over the back of Kate's head as she kneels on the floor beside her. "EMS are on their way, Jordan's alerting the bomb squad and there are plenty of people out there to help Rick," she says, quietly and efficiently, giving Kate a reassuring smile.

She quickly opens a couple of drawers, then the wardrobe, finally finding another sheet to cover Kate up with while she unties her feet from the bottom of the bed.

"Rachel, you have to get everyone out of here, clear the building," Kate tells her, looking up at the wall above. "Tyson has a remote. This thing could go off at any minute."

"Not until we get you free. Just hang in there," she promises, fishing in her utility belt for the universal key to open the handcuffs chaining Kate to the top of the bed.

"Turn that off, would you?" asks Kate, jerking her head towards the stereo system, where the sound of her having sex continues to emanate.

"Did he touch you?" asks Rachel, meeting Kate's eyes softly. "I mean, did he hurt you? Do we need to do a rape kit at the hospital?" she asks, looking at the bloody sheets, and Kate's torn and stained underwear.

"No. No, nothing like that," Kate assures her, shaking her head, wanting to move away quickly from that possibility becoming case folklore, and from the looks and whispers that would inevitably ensue.

"Okay. If you're sure," replies Rachel, touching her arm gently, a hint of disbelief in her eyes.

* * *

Ryan appears back in the doorway, bobbing up and down on his toes, looking embarrassed and edgy, trying to avert his eyes as Rachel finally helps Kate up off the bed.

The ripped camisole falls down her arms and Kate angrily pulls it the rest of the way off and throws it onto the floor, leaving her sitting in just her bra and torn underwear. Rachel wraps the sheet around her shoulders and smooths her tangled hair back down.

"Ryan, can you give us a minute?" she asks, lifting Kate's shirt up off the floor.

"Yeah, look, I'm really sorry to do this. But it…it's Castle," he says, glancing back over his shoulder into the living room with a worried look on his face.

"What about him? Is he okay?" demands Kate, pulling the shirt on and struggling to her feet, regardless of her lack of clothing.

"Whoa, steady," says Rachel, catching her elbow when she sways so badly she has to sit back down immediately.

"He's unconscious, was barely breathing when we found him. Do...do you know if Tyson gave him something?" he asks Kate.

"A…a syringe. He filled a syringe with some drug or other. Try the trash, the surfaces. There was a little glass vial. It might still be here," says Kate, she voice trembling, suddenly out of control, a hiccupped sob breaking free of her throat.

"Just breathe," whispers Rachel gently, rubbing her back when Ryan runs off to do as she suggested. "You're in shock, Kate. Don't try to control it. Let your body come back naturally. Okay? Focus on breathing and relaxing. That's it. In and out. It's over now. You're safe," she says, having no understanding how untrue that statement actually is.

"But…" Kate stutters, gulping for air, "Casssstle," she sobs, pointing towards the living room, her stomach suddenly roiling, sending her lurching forward over her own knees.

Rachel manages to get her to the bathroom just in time, and she vomits violently into the sink.

"Try not to touch anything," Rachel reminds her, as they use the clean sheet to tidy Kate up. "Stay here, I'll get your things and help you dress."

* * *

Loud male voices sound out in the bedroom, while Kate stands in place, hugging herself and shivering. She catches sight of her own reflection in the mirror. Her face is eerily pale, and there are red welts on her arms and wrists, thin, razor sharp cuts to her neck with tiny specks of blood beading their edges where Tyson pressed the knife to her skin. Her mouth is swollen; the right hand side crusted with congealing blood, and her cheekbone bears a dark, purpling bruise. It looks a lot worse than it is, she tries to tell herself, if only she could get her trembling body back under control.

When Rachel returns, she has Jordan Shaw with her. The FBI Agent goes straight to Kate, enfolding her in a tight hug.

"Kate, I'm so sorry," she tells her, squeezing hard and then letting go. "But we'll get him. I promise. He won't escape this time."

Kate nods, still shaking all over, while Jordan goes on to inform her that the bomb squad has arrived and they need to get ready to clear out immediately. Then she leaves Rachel alone with Kate, after a final squeeze of her hand, to go and help the others.

* * *

Kate stands, meek and unmoving as a child, while Rachel buttons her shirt for her, helps her into her jeans and on with her boots.

Finally, they go back out into the bedroom, the scene that greets them horrific and tawdry looking; blood from the cut to Kate's mouth and back smeared across the white sheet that covers the bed, the discarded rope and handcuffs hinting at the brutality that took place here.

As they leave the bedroom, Kate stops to pick up her Glock from the spot where Tyson left it, sliding it into the back of her jeans to begin reclaiming some small piece of herself. And then she pauses when she catches sight of the dresser, one of the drawers lying open and empty. The image burns like acid, eating away at a memory of a happier time. And in that instant, she knows with a deep, profound certainty that whatever comes next in life for her, whatever joyful or sad moments await, she will never live in this place again.

* * *

_A/N: I want to thank Beledi1113 for her help with the plotting of this chapter. You made it what it is. Your plot bunny rocks! Also, thanks to BlueOrchid96 for another round of rough draft reading, giggling at my terrible typos (kiss-ass instead of kick-ass, really?) and general all round support when exhaustion hit._

_Thank you to those of you who have decided to stay with this darker tale and expressed your faith in me to get Caskett out of this Tyson-induced hell. I hope I'm not disappointing you, though we do have a way to go yet. Have a great weekend, Liv x_


	19. Chapter 19 - Aftermath

_A/N: Apologies for the update delay. A lot going on in real life right now._

* * *

_**Chapter 19: Aftermath**_

When Kate walks into the living room of what has just become her once-upon-a-time home, men in bulky, protective suits brush past her en route to the bedroom. Their quiet, calm efficiency belies their explosive reason for being there.

A few more steps and she finds Castle, finally.

He is being attended to by two EMT's. The cords and duct tape that bound him to the chair lie in ruined coils on the floor, like a nest of serpents that have shed their skins.

"Okay, on my count," calls out the heavier-set of the two paramedics, aided on the other side by Ryan and Esposito. "Three, two, one and _lift._"

Castle is quickly manhandled from her dining room chair onto the waiting gurney to be draped in a blanket and strapped aboard. He's wearing an oxygen mask, so most of his face is obscured, and she can't tell if he's awake and conscious, breathing or not.

Kate approaches gingerly, her battered body aching with every measured step, each heartbeat tripping over the one ahead in her body's rush to keep her upright.

* * *

"Did you find the vial?" she asks Ryan, tugging on the sleeve of his jacket to get his attention, her eyes never leaving to prone figure of her partner. "Please tell me you were able to find out what Tyson gave him?"

Ryan gives her a startled look, as if he either fears _for_ her or is fearful _of _her.

"We found this in the kitchen over by the sink," he says, holding up a clear plastic evidence baggie with the small glass bottle inside, running concerned eyes over her bruised and bloodied face all the while.

"Did you guys have _dinner?_" he asks then, his voice strained to higher notes by puzzlement and incredulity.

"What _is_ that?" asks Kate, ignoring the question about their recent, surreal dining experience; the food she just expelled in one great acidic rush into her bathroom sink leaving her feeling hollowed out, or even more hollowed out than she felt before.

If Castle were awake he'd make a bad joke about reviewing on TripAdvisor she's pretty sure, and this random thought surprises her. She's pinging back and forth between restlessness, anxiety and numbness, and finds she has to fight to focus on anything but the man on the bed in front of her. The man she hopes will be her future, if they all live that long.

* * *

A helmeted hulk in an unwieldy Kevlar and foam lined suit passes her bearing the equipment necessary to build a portable blast wall at the entrance to her bedroom. They set up the protective screen while the team works to get some understanding of and hopefully defuse the detonation device Tyson has built and secured to the wall above the bed.

"Norcuron," interjects the EMT, in answer to Kate's question, adjusting the elastic behind Castle's ears to secure the silicone oxygen mask over his nose and mouth while they are in transit. "It's a neuromuscular-blocking agent used in anesthesia. Only whoever administered this dose is no anesthesiologist," he says, tightening the straps holding Castle to the bed.

"Will he be okay?" asks Kate, the strain in her voice finally drawing the attention of the EMT, who looks up at her for the first time.

"You the girlfriend?"

Kate nods in response, hoping she might still fairly be called that, hoping she might even get a chance to be more, no way to know at this point.

"Norcuron is only ever given in a controlled theater setting where mechanical ventilation is available. It's used for endotracheal intubation. Long story short, your boyfriend's been struggling to breathe on his own, basically fighting to get enough oxygen to his brain. What we call respiratory insufficiency or apnea occurs without the aid of a ventilator. We've put him on an oxygen supply. But we need to get him to the hospital asap so that we can better assess his condition."

"He's not…I mean his brain is…" whispers Kate, hoarsely.

"The hospital will do a scan if they think it's needed. Don't worry about that now. He's stable, responding to pain stimuli and breathing on his own. We're monitoring him with a pulse oximeter. But we need to get his sats up, improve his blood gasses. Why don't you ride with us? You look like you could do with being checked over too. Then you can sit with him until he comes round. Does he have any other family?"

Rachel has been standing by Kate's side, a fact she was unaware of until the detective touches her elbow tentatively, not wanting to startle her.

"I can call Martha if you like?" she offers, waiting for Kate's reply, as the men gather up their medical bags and prepare to ship Castle downstairs to the waiting ambulance.

"Would you? And make sure Alexis knows too. They should be together, but…don't let them come to the hospital alone. Tell their detail not to let them leave his sight. Okay?"

"We're headed to Downtown," the EMT informs Rachel. "Should be there in the next ten or so depending on traffic."

"What time is it?" asks Kate, having lost all track during her ordeal, which could have lasted several minutes or whole hours, she has no way to tell.

"After eleven," answers Rachel, checking her chunky, black wristwatch.

"I should stay. Help. What about Tyson? He got away," reminds Kate. "In the dark, he'll have a head start and…"

"There's already an APB out for him, Kate. No way he's slipping through the net. Not with over thirty-thousand cops on the lookout."

"We can't let him get away this time," Kate pleads.

"Go," says Rachel, giving Kate's arm a light squeeze. "You need to focus on Rick right now. I'll call you later. Find out how he's doing. Give him our love," she adds, waving Kate off.

"Oh, Rachel…?" adds Kate, turning back, the subject matter awkward, the request questionable. "That recording…the one on the stereo…"

"I'll deal with it…_personally_. Don't worry," Rachel reassures, her with a quiet, meaningful nod that says she'll log it into evidence and then bury it for as long as she can. "Now, go."

And so Kate leaves the apartment in the bow wave of the steadily departing gurney, never looking back, not for a second, another chapter in her life closing behind her.

* * *

"Why is he so still?" asks Kate, once they are in the back of the ambulance, the rig rocking to one side as they take a corner at speed, the constant wail of the siren almost robbing her of the ability to think straight.

"His muscles are still paralyzed. The drug needs time to work out of his system."

Kate tentatively reaches for Castle's hand, and she lets out a shuddering sigh when she feels its smooth, substantial warmth and volume under her palm. She can't remember the last time she held his hand, tries hard to imagine when it was, but she can't, and that thought makes her sadder than anything. Even before they were together to hold his hand became a gateway to possibility; a sign that they were nearly there. A tear runs down her cheek, and the salty liquid stings when it comes in contact with the split in her lip by the side of her mouth. The burn feels like another punishment and she welcomes it.

"Hey, he's in good hands," reassures the EMT, touching her elbow, completely misconstruing her sorrow.

"I…yeah, thanks," chokes out Kate, giving him a grateful, watery smile as she sweeps moisture off her cheeks with the back of her hand.

"What's that?" she asks, pointing to Castle's face.

His cheeks and forehead are marred by red and white welts that seem to have appeared out of nowhere.

The EMT leans over Castle, bracing himself on the side of the rig to get a better look. He runs a small flashlight over Castle's flushed skin.

"Urticaria, most likely. Looks like his body is having a reaction to the drug. Kinda like hives. It's not uncommon. They'll give him an antihistamine in the hospital and it should die down. It can get a little itchy, but it looks worse than it is."

"Are we nearly there yet?" asks Kate, so over talk of 'when we get to the hospital'. She just wants to be there already, have them do all the things they need to do to make him better.

He's lying on a gurney in the back of an ambulance, wired to a heart monitor, breathing artificial oxygen, his body breaking out all over in response to the drugs that Tyson has been pumping into him. And this all feels so wrong. This all feels like her fault.

"Just a couple more minutes, ma'am. Hang tight."

* * *

The receiving staff await their arrival at the ambulance bay. A nurse steps forward to welcome Kate, while two male nurses and one white-coated doctor come forward to accompany Castle inside, getting a run-down from the EMT on the move.

"My name is Charlotte. What's yours?" asks the nurse, taking Kate's arm and attempting to guide her away from Castle's side.

"No. No, I'm not leaving him," replies Kate, ignoring the nurse's gentle but instant pressure on her arm and shoulders, fighting it.

Behind them, darkness swallows the city. Ahead of them a bright florescent, institutional glow calls them forward, like the ultimate tunnel of light; the one people swear they've seen when they die. And Kate walks towards it willingly, but only because that's the only way for her to stay by Castle's side.

She hears the doctor issue orders in response to the information the EMT gives him. The picture painted seems grave, or even graver, if the ER attending's face is anything to go by. They eventually reach a curtained-off area: a small cubicle with room for the gurney, a couple of people either side of the bed and not much else.

The nurse, the one called Charlotte, is still behind Kate, dogging her every step, and she tries again, touching Kate's elbow gently.

"Hon, he's in good hands. We really should get you seen to," she says, and Kate turns round to look at her.

"Huh?" she asks, vaguely, frowning at the woman and then turning away again to stare with large, frightened eyes as Castle is hooked up to an IV, is given a shot in the other arm, has a newer, more sophisticated heart monitor attached to his chest, the lines snaking off to one side, tethering him to the bed.

The machine is turned on and a regular zigzag tracing appears on the screen that Kate thinks might just be the best thing she has seen all day. She covers her mouth with her hand and silent tears run down her cheeks.

* * *

The sound of feet running on the hospital tile, the quiet slap of flat shoes from several pairs of feet, reaches her ears, but still she cannot turn away, cannot move from her spot at the bottom of his bed.

"Your husband's respiration has been severely depressed by the drug he's been given. Did you see a dosage at all…anything that could help us?" the doctor asks her.

Kate sniffs loudly, startled back to life by the question.

"Dosage? No. He…uh…he had a syringe and a little bottle... But I was too far away to see," she explains, feelings of inadequacy, of having done something wrong, of having failed him, wash over her again.

"That's okay," soothes the doctor, clearly not wanting to upset her further. "We have the vial. But it was empty. Had your husband been given the whole bottle in one go…well, he wouldn't be here right now. But we'll work it out. Don't worry."

"So…what, you think he used the same drug more than once?" asks Kate.

"That's what we're assuming, yes."

"Can I see the vial again?"

The doctor hands her the evidence bag, the chain of custody all but broken unless you count it travelling with Kate by ambulance, making it almost useless in court, though vital to Castle's health. Kate stares at the little bottle, tuning it over in her hands. One full rotation and the label tells her all she needs to know. It's branded 'Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center', the tiny logo, that of an upward-pointing arrow, printed next to the name.

_Jessie Calman._

She needs a phone. Needs to call Rachel or Jordan. Warn them. But then the doctor is talking again and she loses the thread of thought.

* * *

"Your husband's having…"

"He's not my…" sighs Kate, shaking her head and pushing a hand through her matted hair. "He's my partner," she explains awkwardly.

"My apologies. I assumed you two were…"

"I…no, we are. It's just it's…I meant _life_ partner. We're not married. Not yet."

"Right. We will need some forms signed. He's having an allergic reaction to the Norcuron. Is he on any other medication?"

Kate shakes her head. Last time they lived together he was strong as an ox, didn't take so much as a vitamin tablet.

"It is possible he's been given something else on top of the neuro-muscular blocking agent. I understand he's been missing for some time. This particular drug has a number of acute contraindications for a wide range of medications," the doctor explains.

"He…uh…I noticed he has mouth ulcers," Kate suddenly remembers, from when she had to feed him.

"Could be stress, poor dental hygiene, a contaminated water supply or any number of other factors. We'll take a blood sample. Swab his mouth for bacteria. Get it analyzed. If the anaphylaxis gets any worse his throat could swell. We may have to intubate before that happens to maintain his airway."

"But you would go ahead and do that without requiring consent surely?"

"Of course. But depending on the outcome of the CT scan, there may be some…_decisions_ that require to be made further down the line," says the doctor, absolutely chilling Kate.

"Decisions? I…I thought you just gave him an antihistamine shot for the rash and put him on oxygen for a while to help him breathe until he wakes up? Am I…did I get that wrong, because the paramedic…"

"Mr. Castle is severely dehydrated, his breathing has been…compromised. The anesthetic drug can cause hypotension, tachycardia, not to mention the effects of the reduced oxygen supply to his brain. We're not out of the woods yet is what I'm trying to say. So, if your partner has any other family members living nearby, now might be a good time to—"

* * *

"_Kate!_"

The running feet finally catch up with them.

"Kate, darling. Oh, my god, what happened to you?" exclaims Martha, as Alexis hurries on past to reach her dad's side.

"I found him, Martha," is all Kate is able to say, and she smiles, wincing as her lip splits open again, tears once again running down her face.

Martha shakes her head fondly, her eyes shining, and she tuts, brushing a tear from Kate's face, before she pulls her into a grateful hug.

"You kept your promise," Martha concedes, squeezing her hard. "Thank you, darling," she whispers against Kate's cheek.

"This is Rick's mother, Martha Rodgers, and his daughter, Alexis," Kate tells the doctor, linking arms with Castle's mother.

"What's wrong with him? What's wrong with my dad?" Alexis asks, tearing her eyes away from the distressing sight of her father in the hospital bed to focus her innocent, unrelenting Castle stare on the doctor.

He explains the situation slowly and clearly to Alexis and Martha, leaving out the part about decisions for now, Kate is relieved to hear.

"We need to give it a little time. Let him come round of his own accord once the paralysis wears off."

"Can we sit with him?" asks Alexis, touching his foot where it pokes up from beneath the blanket.

"Of course. Once he wakes we'll get him moved to a private room. But it's best that he remain in the ER for now."

He leaves them standing in a small semi-circle around the bottom of the bed: Castle's Angels, thinks Kate, ironically, knowing it's an image he would love, one he would run and run with, bad jokes abounding.

* * *

"What happened?" asks Alexis, eventually turning her gaze on Kate, and the weight of responsibility she feels is almost overwhelming.

"Tyson was holding your dad in my old apartment."

"I thought you rented it out?"

"I did," nods Kate, the shame of her own negligence showing on her face.

"Did you…had you _met_ this guy?" asks Alexis, staring at Kate in disbelief.

Kate nods.

"Alexis, I'm so sorry. I didn't recognize him. If I had, then obviously—"

"This is _all_ your fault!" she exclaims, turning all her anger and fear on Kate. "He's only in this mess because of you. _Look at him!_" she insists, angrily pointing towards the hospital bed.

"Now, Alexis," intercedes Martha, trying to calm her granddaughter down. "This is not Kate's fault."

"She left him, Gram."

"Yes, and that is between your father and Kate. But this man Tyson is the sole reason your dad is in this condition."

Kate knows that Martha is only trying to help, so she lets this version of events ride for now, fully intending to take Alexis aside and explain the whole truth to her at some point. But for now she's dead on her feet and only wants to sit by Castle's side until he wakes up.

Alexis has turned away from both of them, eyes only for her sleeping father now.

"She'll come round," Martha tells Kate quietly, squeezing her hand. "This has been such a strain on all of us."

"I know," replies Kate quietly. "But she has a point. If I hadn't left…"

"_Katherine_," warns Martha, smoothing her hair back from her face, tucking a strand behind her ear. "You found him, and at great personal cost by the looks of it. That's all that matters right now. _That_, and bringing him back to good health."

* * *

Alexis turns back round while they are talking, tears streaming down her face when she addresses Kate.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, hoarsely. "It's not your fault. Not really. I shouldn't have said that."

Kate reaches out to touch the girl's shoulder, but Alexis hugs her instead, rocking her on her feet with the force of her embrace.

"Shhh," Kate whispers, holding the girl while her whole body shakes. "It's okay. He'll be okay."

"Dad wouldn't want us fighting," Alexis tells her, wiping tears away from her cheeks.

"I'm sure you're right about that," agrees Kate, giving her elbow a squeeze. "Why don't you go talk to him. Let him know that you're here. He might respond to your voice," suggests Kate.

"You're coming too, right?" asks Alexis.

Kate has already half-turned away to talk to Martha when Alexis looks at her, and it's as if she's seeing Kate for the first time since they arrived. "What…what happened to you?" she asks, with concern, taking in Kate's bruised and bloody face, her knotted hair, the stained and wrinkled clothes. "Kate, you're bleeding," Alexis points out, the rosie red bloom on the back of her shirt catching the girl's eye.

"Oh. No. It's…it's nothing," assures Kate, momentarily reliving the bite of Tyson's knife as it cut into her back. "Really. It's superficial."

"Still, you should get it seen to," argues Martha, the caring matriarch. "You don't want it to get infected. Richard needs you right now," Castle's mother argues, and Kate hopes she's right: that he'll still let her in after everything.

"My point exactly," bristles nurse Charlotte, suddenly materializing by Kate's side again. "Sooner we clean you up, the sooner you can sit with him," she offers, reading Kate's mind.

Kate stares at Castle, his large body filling the bed, the monitor recording the steady rhythm of his heart.

"Fine," she gives in. "As long as I don't have to go far."

"I have a lovely space for you two beds over. How's that?" asks the nurse, already gently leading her away.

* * *

The woman helps Kate out of her clothes and has her sit on the bed in a hospital gown. She wishes she could take everything off, her underwear included, burn the lot and take a shower to wash away the memory of Tyson's hands on her skin. But for now she lets the nurse clean her wounds, apply antiseptic to the more superficial ones and Steri-Strip closed the deeper cut at the top of her spine.

A melancholy tiredness weighs her down, the flood of adrenalin long leached out of her system, the triumph at finding Castle overshadowed by the events that transpired after she showed up at her own door. Her personal shame that she allowed her professional judgment to be so badly clouded by guilt weighs heavily. The quagmire of her mind led her to make poor decisions, their lives only saved because Tyson's sick plan involved ongoing torture as much as a need to cause sudden and overarching fear while he held them captive; a need to demonstrate that he was in control, wherever and whenever he chose.

* * *

A commotion nearby, accompanied by the sound of more hurrying feet, pulls Kate from her exhausted, anguished reflection.

"What's going on?" she asks the nurse, who leaves her side to poke her head out of the curtain, almost colliding with Alexis in the process.

"Dad's coming round," says the redhead, her face a perfect picture of elated, slightly fearful excitement. "He's asking for you."


	20. Chapter 20 - Waiting And Hoping

_A/N: Thank you for your continued enthusiasm for this story._

* * *

_**Chapter 20: Waiting and Hoping**_

When Kate reaches Castle's bedside, things are not as positive as they first sounded. Alexis' statement that he was asking for her is an optimistic stretch at best; an over-hopeful simplification that pulls the thrumming elastic taut around her heart. The mask remains over his face and he looks listless, out of it, confused. His eyes are closed and they flit rapidly under his purple-veined lids while he mumbles into the silicone, steaming it up with condensation in the process.

"Kate. No. No, Kate. Please, no," is all she can make out, as he shakes his head from side-to-side, his dark hair spiking across the pillow, his movements and mumblings like that of someone in the throws of a bad dream.

She tries to hide her disappointment from Alexis, the hospital gown clutched tightly around her body, her feet bare.

"What's…?" she asks Nurse Charlotte, who stands beside her, allowing her colleagues to take care of Castle, when Kate flounders at the sight in front of her.

"He's coming round from the anesthesia. Some people can get a little confused, even a little agitated. Mr. Castle had been under for a little while. So this is like waking up from a long dream for him. Just keep talking to him. Gently," she advises Alexis. "Use your voice to reassure him, hon. Go on."

Alexis looks at Kate, uncertain, but Kate simply touches her back, uses light pressure to encourage her forward. Martha stands on the opposite side of the bed, her hand pressed over her mouth, chunky cocktail rings sparkling under the hospital lights, watery eyes rooted on her son.

Castle continues chanting in the same vein, despite Alexis' quiet efforts to get his attention and calm him.

"You should try," she finally turns to tell Kate, her face a chalky, twisted mask of distress, aside from two spots of high pink color smudged on her cheeks. "He's really asking for you," she says, defeated and disappointed, stepping back out of the way to let Kate in.

Kate knows, or strongly suspects, exactly what he's talking about in his 'sleep'. The anxious, pleading edge to his voice, the continuous begging. He's reliving the latter part of their ordeal, only she can't explain this to Alexis without having to relive it herself and have both Martha and Castle's daughter look at her differently in the process – as a victim, a potential rape victim. And she knows that if she reveals what happened to them both over those torturous hours that there will always be that lingering question in their minds about what exactly transpired in that bedroom, no matter how truthful and detailed a recounting she gives them. She faces the same ordeal with Castle himself. Explaining once to someone who was there and understands the level of depravity and capacity for heartless, willful evil Tyson is capable of, like Castle does, will be bad enough. Repeating it twice, and to these two relative innocents, doesn't bear thinking about.

So she pauses, with all eyes on her, wraps the gown more closely around her body, and approaches the bed with a different plan in mind. She channels Kate of old - Kate who met this man and was at once as thoroughly irked, irritated and frustrated by him as she admired and desired him. She uses that voice, the one she so rarely falls back on these days, to speak to him, to attempt to pull him out of this confused state by the scruff of his neck.

"_Castle!_" she says sharply, adding weight to her tone that she doesn't feel, stealing energy from somewhere that she doesn't really have. "Castle, listen to me. You're in the hospital. You need to wake up now. It's time to wake up."

* * *

They all hold their breath, watching him, and if will alone could make a person float back into consciousness they'd have him levitating above the bed by now, such is the intensity of feeling in the small space.

But he continues to fret feverishly, his brow deeply furrowed, his breathing and heart rate elevated, his chest rising and falling by a pretty small margin as he effectively pants for breath.

"Is…this is bad for him, right?" asks Kate, turning back to her own nurse for advice. "He seems agitated. Won't that harm him? His heart racing like that?"

"He's not fighting the mask, which is good," she says calmly. "Most people want to pull the mask off their faces. Feel like it's suffocating them. He…" she watches for a few seconds more. "He seems to be fighting some kind of battle in his head. Whatever trauma you just went through, it seems as if he's still in the middle of it."

Kate can't watch him suffer like this for much longer. She thinks about turning around for a split second, about going back to her own cubicle to finish up being treated just to escape the torturous scene. But the look in Martha's eyes: this pleading, disconsolate, helplessness holds her still, and eventually, after a couple of beats, draws her closer, closer to the bed and closer to him.

If Kate feared her friends' reactions when she flew back from D.C. after weeks of self-impose silence, she fears Castle's most of all. But she sits in the large, pale green vinyl armchair next to the bed, her knees poking out from beneath the gown, her stomach hollowed out due to lack of food and an emptiness nothing but a smile from this man can fill, and she breathes. She breathes in time with him, matching him snatched, frightened breath for snatched, frightened breath, and after a few seconds, she begins to get some deeper measure of his terror.

She leans over her thighs, presses her knees together to stop herself from falling farther forward or from shaking, and then she reaches out to take his hand.

His skin is dry but warm, his fingers curled in on themselves where his hand rests on top of the blanket. There is no Venflon cannula to obstruct her access to his hand on this side of the bed: this large, substantial, familiar hand that has cradled her, comforted her, teased and loved her over and over without question or reservation.

She curls her own fingers under his, wiggles her way inside, until her fingertips can caress the soft, smooth underside of his palm. She strokes the top of his hand with her thumb, beginning a repetitious arc that measures out the passage of time. Like the sweep of the beam from a lighthouse it comes around, the rhythm set in tune with his breathing.

"Castle," she whispers, her free hand placed beneath his pillow as she leans in closer to his ear. "I need you to wake up for me. Will you please wake up?"

* * *

She wishes they were alone for this. He has taught her to be freer with displays of affection, but still she finds this public forum difficult - every word, every gesture observed. She does not want to come up short, to fail him any more than she already has.

The steady beep, beep of the heart monitor mocks her. He's alive, yes, but she needs more proof than this…this digital echo of his heart's continued ability to beat. She needs to know how his heart _feels_, not merely that it continues to function on a biological level, on simple electrical impulse alone.

Kate is just on the point of giving up, moving to let someone else try their luck, _her_ distress at witnessing _his_ distress no match for her current state of mental and physical exhaustion, when fingers close around hers. And it's an almost imagined sensation at first; like the first, elemental flutter of a baby in the womb. Ephemeral. She stares down at his hand, makes another pass with her thumb, sweeping over his warm, dry skin, and this time he answers her with an infinitesimal pressure of skin on skin, creaking, underused joints flexing to respond to her touch.

"His fingers…they just moved," she looks up to tell Martha, tired eyes widening. "Rick? Rick, can you hear me?" she urges, standing to get closer, closer, the excess fabric of the hospital gown falling off her lap and flowing out in front of her.

"_Richard!_" Martha intones, her rich, plummy, theatrical voice louder than all the rest, insistent and infinitely more commanding. "Richard, squeeze Katherine's hand if you can hear us."

This time the pressure of his grip is unmistakable. His thick, strong fingers clamp around her cool, slender ones and he holds on for a few seconds before letting go.

Kate nods, her face up-turned towards Martha, and her eyes shine with a fierce, inner-glow that defies her exhaustion. Tears run down her cheeks and her voice is completely gone by this point, so she just nods and nods, a watery smile spreading across her face.

"Castle?" she finally whispers, leaning forward to touch his forehead, as Alexis crowds in beside her, never for a second letting go of his hand.

"Dad! Dad, open your eyes," commands Alexis, the high spots of color on her cheeks spread now like an inkblot to cover more of her alabaster skin, as excitement and hope floods all of their chests with the rush of a goal nearly achieved.

As if on his daughter's command alone, Castle's eyes finally flutter open. His lashes beat like the wings of a hummingbird for the barest of seconds, and then they close again, stung by the bright light overhead.

"Can we switch this off?" asks Kate, gesturing towards the angled lamp above the bed which it emitting a clinical, too-bright, artificial pool of light worthy of a Cold War interrogation room.

A nurse reaches past Martha's shoulder to flick the switch, and the bed is instantly shrouded in quieter, duskier tones.

"He's been in the dark for da—well, I assume," she stammers, frowning at her own careless remark, one that will undoubtedly worry Martha and Alexis.

But they're too absorbed in the man in the bed, the man whose eyes are flashing like Morse Code now that she looks closer – the sky blue and white dot, followed in rapid succession by the close-lidded dash.

"Castle?" she tries again, squeezing his hand this time along with the warm, elongated hiss of his name, her breath ghosting over his ear, temple and forehead.

He startles slightly, the back of his head making a whispering sound across the crisp hospital pillowcase as he turns towards the gentle hum of her voice. Finally his eyes open fully and he blinks slowly, taking in the scene in front of him – that of his daughter and partner's concerned faces staring down at him. He lifts his free hand to his face, tugs off the mask, the silicone sliding easily across the soft bristles of his beard.

* * *

She's not so romantic as to expect some great words of love or longing, wisdom or wit to come out of his mouth at this moment, although this is Castle, so anything is feasible. But the question he does ask causes a bubble of surprised laughter to curl up and out of her terrifyingly tight chest.

"What time is it?" he rasps, as he was in the habit of croaking into the creased skin of her sleep-warmed neck each morning he woke up beside her, back when they still shared a life and a bed.

Kate presses her fingertips to her lips, her laughter turning to tears with a speed that shocks and surprises her; the flood of emotion at hearing his voice, finally, breaking over her heart like a wave crashing ashore until it hits the wrack line and retreats.

"Just after midnight," she confirms, tentatively touching her fingertips to his temple, sweeping them gently across his forehead to smooth his hair back.

He watches her for a second, and Kate is on the point of asking how he's feeling, when his follow-up question chills her, draining the joy at this reunion right out of her.

"What are you doing here?"

Kate freezes, uncertain how to answer him, uncertain what the question even means.

Alexis jumps in before Kate can get her brain to make her mouth work, to form any kind of interrogative in response.

"Dad, you're in the hospital," she says, gently but firmly, as if speaking to a small child. "We've been waiting for you to wake up, Kate and Grams and me. We've been so worried about you. You know who we are, right?" she asks, her face so serious, so earnest, her smooth brow furrowed until he nods and her eyes sparkle and she treats him to her best Alexis smile.

* * *

Kate takes a small step back, clutching her gown around her again as switches places with Alexis, finally migrating to the foot of the bed to let Martha in beside her granddaughter, allowing Castle to focus on both women at once. They talk to him like a pair of amateur quacks, both unsubtly testing his cognitive skills with rather obvious questions about small, personal details, events, places and dates he should easily remember.

She's down by the foot of the bed, suddenly shivering from her lack of clothing and a creeping feeling of unease, when he finds her eyes again and addresses her directly.

"Shouldn't you be on your way back to D.C.?" he asks, his voice flat, lacking judgment as much as it lacks warmth.

Kate doesn't know what to say. She feels as if she's just been slapped across the face, her heart ripped out of her chest and then stomped on. A cold blush creeps up her cheeks, if such a thing is possible, and the hairs on her arms and the back of her neck rise all at once.

Martha steps in on her behalf when she sees her floundering, her lips barely moving but nothing coming out.

"Richard!" she admonishes her son, quietly but firmly, slowly shaking her head at him. "You've both been through a terrible ordeal. Why don't you get a little rest while this nice nurse finishes tending to Kate, hmm? Then you can talk," she suggests, as if a little time is all it will take to make this deep rift better.

"Whatever," he mutters, with a petulance Kate has witnessed from him before, back when dangerous secrets were involved and his heart was on the line.

Nurse Charlotte takes Kate's arm on the back of Martha's suggestion and leads her gently back to her own cubicle. Kate willingly goes with her, led like a child being returned to bed after being found sleepwalking. She goes because she has no idea what to do otherwise. Tears clog her throat, thick and paralyzing. This is no better than she expected, but it is unexpectedly harder to take, especially in her fragile, exhausted, emotional state.

* * *

Unbeknown to Kate, Castle's eyes trail her retreating back until she disappears from view, his gaze drawn to the bloody, patched up wound still visible at the top of her spine where the hospital gown gapes and her shorter hairstyle leaves pale flesh bare. His foot jiggles rapidly under the covers and he clutches a wad of blanket in his fist with the surge of anger that passes through him at the memory of her breathy, echoing moans.

"Give her a break, Richard," whispers Martha, sitting down heavily in the chair beside his bed. "She put herself in considerable harm to save you, ran herself ragged these past few days trying to find you. I know you're still hurting, darling, over the way she left. But she's genuinely sorry. And what she just did…well, she's more than proved herself in my eyes. So, please, give her a chance to explain. For your sake as much as hers," she counsels.

Castle looks at his mother, his soft blue eyes turned a hard, flinty grey.

"You have no idea what you're talking about," he tells her, his tone once again measured and flattened. "So please…don't interfere," he instructs his mother, before turning away to project a manufactured smile on his daughter, leaving his mother feeling chastened and worried by the cold bitter edge to his words.

* * *

_A/N: I promise it will get better. Hope everyone's having a great weekend. :)_


	21. Chapter 21 - Inalienable Rights

_A/N: Another quick update to keep the story moving._

* * *

_**Chapter 21: Inalienable Rights**_

Kate sits meekly on the side of the hospital bed, her bare legs swinging back and forth, her disconnected gaze leveled at the curtain separating her cubicle from the one next door. She fixes her eyes on a blood spot staining the hem of the curtain and tries to calm her whirring mind. Her posture speaks to her dejection: shoulders slumped, her spine curved in a quiet arc like a large C, her stomach a sleepy, empty hollow, hipbones jutting protectively on either side, cradling.

"You know, anesthetic drugs are a well-known mood suppressant," offers up the nurse, Charlotte, her hand landing on Kate's gown-covered knee just briefly, a crumb of comfort, before she resumes cleaning the restraint marks around her wrists with quiet, clinical efficiency.

"I know," says Kate, trying to sound lighter about things that she feels, than her face and body language are confirming she feels.

"In fact, depression after anesthesia is a well documented medical phenomenon…that's all I'm saying. There are journals full of it. He's still coming round. It'll take a while for the drugs to work out of his system…"

"I know. I just…I didn't expect…"

Kate sighs, shakes her head, curls falling in around her cheekbones. She pushes them back off her face with her free hand.

"You've been through a lot. Not meaning to pry. But, hon, your bruises, the cuts…if you weren't already police we'd be calling the police. You hear what I'm saying?"

"Yes," nods Kate, tiredly. Too tired to argue.

"So, try imagining what it's like for him. Waking up in a strange place, mask on your face, bright light in your eyes, faces staring down at you, noise… That's gotta disorient a person, depression aside."

Kate wants to tell the nurse that all she's been doing since she got the call in Washington is imagining what it's been like for Castle; that it's pretty much _all_ she thinks about. _That_, and the massive personal mistake she made by leaving the way she did in the first place.

"I just…I expected that being free would mean more, I guess," she says instead, wondering why she feels like opening up to this woman in particular. "Would mean more to _him_."

Perhaps it's her kind face, her quiet insistence that she needs looking after, following her around like her personal guardian angel since she got here. In fact, apart from Martha and maybe Rachel, she's about the kindest face Kate has seen since she got back to the city.

"Give it time, honey. He'll come round. Maybe just hold off on the tickertape parade a little while longer, huh?" she suggests, giving Kate a tentative smile.

* * *

When all her wounds are tended to, a script for some prophylactic antibiotics she knows she won't fill supplied by the doctor, advice on tending to the wound on her back dispensed, Kate peels off the hospital gown and begins to get dressed. Her limbs feel heavy, her joints ache, muscles stretched awkwardly _before_ protest their innocence _now_, and bruises administered at the scene of the crime begin to make themselves known – materializing on her skin in vivid purple hues for now, before they amble their way through all the colors of the rainbow over the next several days.

She reaches for the duo of rings that hang between her breasts, glad that these were at least one thing Tyson did not lay his foul fingers on. She stills their pendulum action, cradling their weight in the palm of her hand for a second, and then she quickly tucks them inside her shirt, fastening the final few buttons to shelter them inside.

All she wants to do is go home, soak in a bath to wash the muck of the last day's horror off her body and then fall in between clean, fresh sheets to sleep for hours.

But what Kate Beckett wants in the moment is rarely her lot in life, and so it is again.

There is Tyson and then there is Castle.

* * *

She finds Martha out in the hallway and borrows her cell phone since hers is still locked inside her car. She calls the Twelfth, gets hold of Ryan and explains the link between the drugs Castle has been given and the hospital where Jessie Calman works. Calman could be an accomplice or a patsy, and if she's a patsy, she could be in danger right now if Tyson is sweeping up behind himself before dropping out of sight once more. Ryan promises to act on her tip, telling her that Rachel will take Memorial Sloan-Kettering and he and Esposito will go and visit Jessie Calman's home, fully prepared, though not expecting to be so lucky as to find Tyson sheltering there.

She ends the call after answering Ryan's questions about Castle's condition and her own wellbeing, smooths down her wrinkled, bloody shirt, wipes her perspiring hands on the front of her stained jeans, and prepares to go back to Castle's cubicle to face the music.

When she gets there, the space is empty, the bed already being washed down by an orderly in preparation for the next emergency admission. She still has Martha's phone, so she looks up Alexis' number and calls the girl.

"I waited for you," Alexis explains. "But a room opened up for dad in a general ward upstairs. They want to admit him until morning for observation or something. But he's…Kate, he seems a little weird," Alexis confesses.

Kate imagines things must be bad for the girl to be confiding this to her, but she bites her tongue and simply asks where she is at present. They agree to meet out by the elevators on the higher floor Castle's been moved to.

* * *

"Hey," says Kate, when the elevator doors open and she runs straight into Castle's daughter. The girl is pacing back and forth in front of the elevator bank, her cell phone pressed to her chin. "What's up?"

"Dad, he's…I don't know," she says, shaking her head and toeing the vinyl tile while she wraps her skinny arms around her body. "He seems angry," she confesses, giving Kate a guilty look the second the words are out of her mouth, as if she is being a traitor even sharing these concerns with her.

"Angry with you?"

"With me, with gram…I just…I imagined him being so…"

"Happy?" suggests Kate, speaking in time with Alexis.

"Yeah!" she grins, nodding. "Happy. Exactly. I thought that when we found him things would go back to normal, but…"

"Alexis," says Kate quietly, taking the girl's arm and walking her down the corridor towards the large window on the far wall. "Your dad has been through a terrible trauma. Neither of us can imagine what the past days have been like for him…not really. Not ever, hopefully."

"Not even you?" she asks with blinking, wide-eyed innocence.

"No. Not even me," concedes Kate, looking out at the spread of lower Manhattan down below their feet.

She pauses for a second or two, her fingertips pressed to the cool glass, watching the lights of cars and taxis move around the grid below her like lightening bugs, their glow interrupted by buildings, parked cars, mail boxes, street lamps and the like.

"Think back to how you felt when you got back from Paris. Don't dwell on it, but just think back a little. I know your dad wanted you to talk to him about what happened there, that he thought he could help you more if he understood what you went through. But I also know from personal experience that there are some things we need to deal with in our own way, because no one can know what it's like to be you or me or your dad. This is the exact same scenario. Different captor, different city. But in essence, the rest is the same. If you want to help your dad, use what you learned about yourself. Use what your therapist taught you to try to understand how your dad is reacting right now."

"I never thought of it like that," confesses Alexis. "When you say it now it makes so much sense."

"Good," nods Kate, encouraged that she seems to be getting through to her. "So, he's not mad at you or your grandmother. He's disoriented. And he just came round. Drugs like the one he was given can make you depressed. Being captured, confused, maybe even a little embarrassed, all these things could contribute to him being angry too."

"I hate seeing him like this," she whispers, her eyes shining as she teeters on the edge of tears. Dark circles mar her pale skin, hinting at the exhaustion and lack of sleep they've all been suffering over the past number of days while Castle has been missing.

"I know you do," reassures Kate, rubbing the girl's arm. "Best we can do is be there for him when he'll let us and just…give him time."

* * *

They're still talking quietly, heading back towards the elevator bank, when there's a commotion further down the hall. Kate looks over Alexis' head to see Castle emerging from a room several doors down, trailed by a shocked looking Martha. He's fastening the last of the buttons on his shirt as he walks towards them, speaking all the while, though he's still too far away for her to make out actual words. A nurse appears from within the same room and she attempts to head him off at the nurses' station. But Castle simply swerves around her, like a wide receiver intent on reaching the end zone.

He pulls up short when he sees Kate and Alexis coming towards him, their arms intertwined, mouths dropping open in surprise as their conversation quickly fizzles out.

"Talking about _me_, I assume," he says, with uncharacteristic coldness. "Didn't take you long," he adds for Alexis' benefit, drawing a quiet gasp of air from the girl's lips.

His eyes say it all: the hurt in them indicating that he believes Alexis to be perpetrating some kind of betrayal by being anywhere with Kate, let alone walking arm-in-arm outside his hospital room talking about him in hushed tones.

"Castle, where do you think you're going?" asks Kate, completely ignoring his harsh remark, just as the flushed-faced nurse catches up with him.

He still has the Venflon cannula inserted in the back of his hand, the IV having been removed at some point, possibly his own doing if the bruised blood spreading beneath his skin is anything to go by.

"It's the middle of the night," she points out, when he doesn't answer her immediately.

"Exactly. I'm going home," he says, to a huff of protest from the flustered nurse.

"Why don't we go back to your room and talk about this?" suggests Kate, calmly, keen that they avoid a public scene or disturb any of the other patients at this late hour.

"No! No way," insists Castle, his features tightening at the prospect, his mouth forming a thin, determined line.

"Can…do you think we could have a moment?" asks Kate, looking at the nurse firstly, and then to both Martha and Alexis.

All three women quickly defer to Kate's willingness to handle the situation, her professional, in-charge demeanor, and they readily retreat, leaving the two alone to talk.

* * *

"Castle, it's really late. You must be exhausted. The drugs you've been given are still wearing off… Don't you think it would be best to spend the night here so the staff can keep an eye on you in case anything goes wrong? You were under for a long time."

He stares at her, his expression hard to read, and it strikes her that it's infinitely hard to imagine him ever regarding her with anything close to lust or love, as he used to, and it's equally hard to imagine the two of them falling about with laughter, as they so often did when work didn't get in the way and they had the evening or weekend to themselves. All of that - that closeness and intimacy - seems so remote as to be a figment of her imagination right at this moment. These thoughts weigh her down, tugging on her slender frame in the same way guilt does.

"Do you have _any_ idea what it's like being cooped up in that little room?" Castle asks, sharply, turning to point over his shoulder at the direction he just appeared from. "_Do you_? With a heart monitor tethering me to the bed, more wires coming out of my arm. Do you know what that's like after spending days chained to a radiator? Do you, Kate?" he asks, steadily raising his voice.

It's the first time he has used her name, and it catches her hard, like a slap.

"Okay. Okay, just calm down," she says, holding her hands up in front of her to placate him. "I understand how that might seem, now you point it out. But this is a _safe place_, Castle," she reassures him, trying not to be thrown by his uncharacteristic behavior; his anger no less than Alexis prepared her for.

"Find him did they?" he spits, wiping spittle from his mouth with the back of his hand.

She wants to reach out and touch him, to comfort him, to feel those powerful muscles she knows lie beneath the wrinkled, dirty fabric of his shirt. She wants that so badly, needs it for herself even, but knows they are a long way off being anything close to that.

"Not as far as I know," she confirms, gnawing on her lip and looking down at the floor.

"Exactly. So, _nowhere_ is safe," he insists, his eyes flashing with a stubborn determination.

"Maybe. Maybe not. But there are people here who can take care of you. The detail Gates put on your mom and Alexis is right at the end of the hall. Just for the rest of tonight? Please?" bargains Kate. "After that you can go home, I promise."

"See, the thing is," he says, rubbing the back of his neck and smiling suddenly at the floor, before he abruptly looks back up at her, all traces of the smile gone as fast as it came. "You don't get a say anymore. What…what makes you think you have a say?" he asks, getting agitated again. "Why are you even _here_?"

"_Castle?_" she implores, but he just stands firm, staring at her.

"If…if you want me to go, I can go," she stammers. "But I would like to be here for you and your family, if you'll let me," she replies, more calmly, fighting the desire to just lean against the wall and slide all the way to the floor before falling asleep where she lands.

"You gave up that right when you left all of us to pursue your sacred career, Beckett. So, I'm done taking orders from you. Done," he repeats, his voice cracking on the final syllable.

But he turns away from her, shielding his face, before she can interpret what that slight hitch might possibly mean for her and for them.

* * *

Kate turns in the opposite direction, shell-shocked by this exchange, to find Alexis and Martha waiting at a safe distance down the hallway. She goes to join them, leaving Castle to the ministrations of the nurse, who is finally persuaded to remove the venous catheter from the back of his hand.

"He's not prepared to listen to me, I'm afraid," Kate tells them, pursing her lips and shaking her head, cheeks coloring with embarrassment that they might have heard what he actually said to her. "He's…" she sighs, and Martha reaches out, wrapping her arms around her shoulders to give her a hug.

"Darling, you're exhausted. You need to sleep."

"Tyson's still out there. _I_ let him get away. How can I…"

"Now, that's quite enough," snaps Martha, sternly. "Alexis, give us a minute, dear. Go and check on your father," she tells her granddaughter, one eyebrow raised to ward off any objection.

Martha waits until Alexis is out of earshot before she speaks again.

"Katherine, from what I have heard, you were in _no_ position to prevent this Tyson from leaving."

Kate raises her eyes to meet Martha's in a startled look.

"That's right. Rachel called to check in on you both. She only filled me in on the sketchiest of details, don't worry. But what is abundantly clear is that you have both been through one hellish nightmare. You need to rest. Now, I don't know if Richard's behavior is a reaction to the drugs or being detained. But darling, I know that he loves you," she says, vehemently, taking both Kate's hands in her own and shaking them for emphasis. "He loves _you_. And he is incapable of stopping himself from loving you. He's just afraid of being hurt again if he lets you back in. That's all," she says, reaching up to stroke a hand over Kate's hair.

"He has a point. I left. What right do I have to tell him what to do?" asks Kate, dejectedly.

"You're wearing his ring, aren't you?" asks Martha, arching her eyebrow again, her lips pressed into a tight smile.

Kate looks surprised, wasn't even aware that Martha had seen the engagement ring hanging around her neck.

"You keep reaching for it, dear," she smiles, softly this time.

"Yes, but…I'm not even sure what…"

"Well, you'd better decide what it means. And fast. He's been messed around enough. I know your career is important to you. But a job won't keep you warm at night, and no job will take your hand and walk with you into old age. Believe me, darling, I should know."

Martha's tough love is exactly what Kate needs to hear. Her words strangely give her hope and a renewed determination to do for Castle exactly what he did for her over the years – push her way in and hang on until he listens to her, notices her, takes her seriously, begins to trust her and falls in love all over again.

"I'll call the car service," says Martha, patting Kate on the arm. "You round up the other two and tell them we're going home."


	22. Chapter 22 - Home

_A/N: The words of the song I've used at the beginning of this chapter quite accurately convey what Castle is feeling towards Kate at this point in the story. I've included the whole song this time, since elements from both verses and the chorus remind me of the mess inside Castle's head. He loves her, he lost her, he tried to deal with that, but he can't, and he knows with deep certainty that it won't take much to lose himself to her once again, especially now she is staying in his home. This song__ was used in the ABC series 'Nashville', and if_ you get a chance to listen to it on YouTube it really is beautifully sung and very melancholic. I think it fits this part of the story perfectly.

_Can I just also add at this juncture that if you are left in any doubt that Kate still loves Castle, after all she has put herself through to come and find him and bring him home, then I am failing as a storyteller here. Just because she wanted to take a bath does not make her a selfish person who cares any less for Castle, or who wants to be alone. She's human, she turned down medical help to remain by his side, he is her priority, but she feels literally and mentally filthy after what happened at her apartment with Tyson. So, please bear that in mind as you read on. If it comes across any differently then that is my fault, not Kate's._

_Thank you as ever for all the encouraging reviews and PM's. I'm writing this as fast as I can, please be assured. Liv_

* * *

_"I'm afraid to go up onto the second floor_  
_If you wanted to work it out why'd you lock the door_  
_I thought I was good at loving you_  
_But our light went out when you wanted it to_  
_I wish you the best, I'm headed west_  
_it's all I know to do_

_I will fall, I will fall if you come around_  
_Just when I think my heart break has settled down_  
_I will fall, I will fall if you come around_

_When we said goodbye it was forever_  
_And I spent the last year piecing my life together_  
_Just when I think I've let you go_  
_Your song's playing on the radio_  
_And just like that it rushes back_  
_every part of you_

_I will fall, I will fall if you come around_  
_Just when I think my heart break has settled down_  
_I will fall, I will fall if you come around"_

_**- Clare Bowen & Sam Palladio,** 'I Will Fall'_

* * *

_**Chapter 22: Home**_

The car ride home is stiff and silent. Kate rides up front next to the driver, while Castle, Alexis and Martha sit in the back of the spacious Mercedes-Benz. The plain-clothes detail follows them home to the loft in a navy-blue unmarked, keeping at a constant close distance in case of any trouble.

Kate catches herself endlessly drumming her fingers on her knees, her right leg jiggling ceaselessly the entire way from Downtown Hospital to the corner of Broome and Crosby. Her eyes are trained on the dark streets beyond the glass, straining for a better look at the sparse number of passers-by at every stoplight they are forced to endure. The ride takes little more than ten or fifteen minutes at this early hour of the morning thankfully, and all too soon they are climbing out of the car, crossing the sidewalk and moving swiftly inside the lobby of the building.

* * *

That Kate is staying at the loft was clearly a surprise to Castle. He was unprepared for her announcement that Martha had called the car service and they should all make their way downstairs to await their ride home. As a result, she saw the hot flash of shock on his face, a reaction he tried to school, but not before she caught a clear glimpse of his expression in all it's naked, hopeful, fearful glory.

Alexis trailed by her father's side the entire way down to the lower level of the hospital as if moving from her flanking position would somehow indicate a further display of disloyalty or might result in him disappearing once more, Kate couldn't be sure which.

The ride up to the loft is equally awkward, the silence that envelops their little group both a product of their extreme shared exhaustion, and the many elephants stomping around the tiny, enclosed little room.

The police officer assigned to guard them comes inside for tea at Martha's insistence. He hovers inside the front door after ushering everyone else in ahead of him, his large frame filling the doorway in a way that diminishes even Castle's impressive height and physique.

Castle too stands just inside the loft, looking left and right, taking in the scope of his home, eyes sweeping over every small, familiar detail, as he abides in wordless silence for a long minute soaking in the wonder of it all; of finally being home free.

"Darling, you're home now," murmurs his mother, quietly, stretching up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, before taking his hand and leading him towards the kitchen where Kate and Alexis are going through the basic steps required to make tea for everyone.

* * *

Kate finds Castle watching her when she turns away from the stove after placing the kettle on top to boil. She immediately touches a self-conscious hand to her matted hair, suddenly aware how awful she must look under the bright kitchen lights. She badly needs to shower and change her clothes. Her make-up is worn to a smudged, streaked stain, and she's pretty sure she doesn't smell too good either.

"I should…uh, my things are in there," she says, pointing towards Castle's bedroom. "I'll just go get them," she nods and bites her lip, waiting for a beat or two, her skin growing prickly and hot in the uncomfortable silence that ensues.

When Castle makes no move to protest or contradict her, she quietly adds, "I can sleep in the guest room tonight."

Martha gives her son a hard stare, but he simply catches her look, lets it bounce off him, and turns away.

"Go after her," hisses Martha, attempting to give him a shove in the right direction once Kate has left the room. But Castle is a big man, his bulk no match for his mother's waning strength when he is in as belligerent a mood as this.

"You young people will be the death of me," Martha mutters under her breath, turning away from him to tend to their guest – the uncomfortable looking cop perched at the counter on a kitchen stool that looks two sizes too small for him. "_Tea?_" she asks, in her brightest, most hostess-like voice, cheeks pinched by a rictus smile.

* * *

Castle mooches around the living room for a little while, picking up objects, turning them over in his hands and then setting them down again as if he is a first-time visitor to his own home. His head is full to bursting with so many dark, terrible thoughts. He picks up a book, one he's been meaning to read for ages, and flips to the first page. But the words dance like wood nymphs in front of his tired eyes, and he wonders how he can be so tired and yet so wired at the same time.

"Chamomile, dad," murmurs Alexis, appearing by his side. "Careful, it's still hot," she warns, giving him a small, dimple-cheeked smile that he would find adorable under other circumstances.

"Thanks, pumpkin. But I'm not really in the mood for tea," he tells her, attempting to hand the mug back.

Alexis' face falls, the dimples and the smile that cause them rapidly disappearing.

"I drank a ton of the stuff after I got back from Paris," she says, gently reminding him that she's not a clueless kid in these matters, as he might first think. "It was the only thing that would help me sleep the first few nights back."

"Right," nods her father, thoughtfully, accepting her point and retaining the mug in his hands in the process.

"It's so good to have you home," she tells him, her eyes bright, shiny little gems, glittering icy, clear blue like aquamarine.

"It's good to _be_ home," he admits, though inside he feels less enthusiastic, less joy and excitement than he imagined he would.

He feels flat. Flat and angry – the two competing emotions cancelling out any elation at being rescued and reunited with his loved ones.

Kate's presence here in their once shared home is confusing him. His mother and Alexis' seeming acceptance of her back into the family fold feels like a betrayal of sorts, though God knows he worked to get them to accept her after they first got together, so he should be pleased, he tells himself. Only he isn't. He's just confused, his thinking muddy, his overall mindset still one of high alert and fear.

* * *

He sips the tea to keep Alexis happy, but his mind won't rest. He plays back the events of yesterday evening on a loop – Kate's arrival at her old apartment, her apparent lack of a plan or even any desire to fight. He's puzzled by the way she more or less surrendered herself to Tyson and her own fate as soon as she arrived and saw him there, strapped to that chair. Then the darker twists of the evening flood in – the horrendous meal they were forced to endure, his humiliation at being hand-fed by Kate, her quiet insistence that they needed to talk, but not here, her final assertion that it was over between them, before Tyson dragged her off into her own bedroom and…

Here, his mind falters. At this point in the story the action grows fuzzy, the whole nightmare slightly out of focus after Tyson injected him with this Norcuron drug, leaving him paralyzed in a chair while he..._raped_ his girlfriend. He stills as his brain supplies that vile word for the first time, offers it up as an explanation of what happened out of sight but within earshot. His face flushes at the same time his body goes cold. Snatches of sound drift back to him. Kate's screams, the sounds of her struggling and cursing, his heart races as he tries to recall the totality of what happened, the chronology uncertain to him. He fights to separate truth and reality from the damaged inner workings of his mind, his personal shame, and the foul, poisonous whisperings Tyson planted in his ear, over and over again. He heard a ripping sound, he remembers, like fabric being torn, then moaning. _Pleasurable moaning._ Two people moving together, deep in the throws of a sexual act, moving and moaning as if they…

"Dad, you need to go easy on Kate. She seems genuinely sorry for leaving the way she did, and since she came back all she's—"

"I wish everyone would _stop_ telling me what to _do_ and how to _feel_," he snaps at his daughter, his heart racing and his hands shaking with the memory of Tyson and Kate in her bed together.

"_Dad!_" exclaims Alexis, so rarely having been on the receiving end of her father's anger that it shocks her.

"Sorry. I'm sorry. I...look, I just need some space right now. I'll see you in the morning," he tells her, handing back the mug and hurrying off towards his own personal sanctuary without so much as a hug or a kiss on the cheek.

* * *

Only when he gets inside and closes the door to his bedroom, sinking back against the dark wood, does he realize that he has completely forgotten Kate is inside packing up her things. She hovers in a half-crouch, frozen over an open drawer, a bundle of t-shirts balanced on one hand, her other hand gripping the edge of the dresser. She looks exhausted and in pain and his heart seizes.

"I'm sorry. My body's a little slow tonight," she apologizes for still being there, not knowing what else to do.

"You mean this morning," corrects Castle, breathing through his nose in an attempt to slow his heart and clear his head of images he can't cope with right now.

"I'm…?" Kate shakes her head, puzzled. "Oh, yes. Right. It's today already."

She nods, still frozen to the spot.

"Look, you don't need to move your things tonight," he says, hesitantly. "You look…"

"I look as bad as you probably feel," she says, with a slight upturn to the corners of her mouth that auditions as a smile, but doesn't quite make it all the way.

"I…I didn't mean," Castle stammers, wishing he felt half as good as Kate looks right now, even dirty, bloodied and exhausted.

The truth is that she scares him, and yet still he feels for her; a familiar warmth towards her that he has been unsuccessful in completely quashing.

"It's fine," she tells him, straightening up with some effort.

He thinks she means his stupid hesitation over her remark about how she looks, but she evidently means packing up her things. Because she carries her t-shirts to a duffle bag he hadn't noticed sitting at the bottom of the bed and continues putting them inside.

* * *

"I'm sorry I didn't get around to making the bed," she says, glancing up at the sheets, which are thrown back on one side.

_Her _side.

Castle stares at the disturbed linen, notes the dent her head has made in her own pillow, and then he notices the migration of a pillow from his own side. It has been turned lengthways and is narrowed in the middle as if…

Kate's face flushes and she walks to the head of the bed and snatches up the pillow, plumping up it's squashed shape and then dropping it on top of Castle's other pillow as she continues to re-make the bed. They both know that she was hugging his pillow as she slept. But neither one of them says anything.

"Stop. Kate...stop," he says, and she slows her movements at his command, but doesn't look at him. "It's late. We're both exhausted. You don't have to sleep in the guest room," Castle tells her, scrubbing both hands down over his bearded face, wondering where this is coming from and if he'll regret saying it.

She scares him. But then so did Tyson, and he made it through that ordeal so far. He has questions, lots and lots of questions crowding into his brain. But she looks dead on her feet and he still feels for her, can't help himself, so…

"Stay. Sleep here tonight. It doesn't have to mean anything," he adds, flatly, making things easier for her he hopes, while trying to convince himself.

He walks off towards the bathroom, leaving her standing by the side of the bed with a pillow in her hands.

She drops the pillow and follows him.

"Castle, we _have_ to talk. We can't share a bed and not…not _talk_ about any of the stuff that's just..."

She waves a hand in the air between them, sighs in frustration and exhaustion, running out of words.

"You really want to do this now?" he asks, and it comes out sharper and far harsher than he means it to, a fact he only registers when Kate recoils slightly in the bathroom doorway.

"I'm…I'm sorry. I only meant that it can wait until morning. No talking tonight. I'm…I feel so _angry_ right now," he confesses, quietly, grinding the word out between his teeth.

Kate sees his fists clench at his sides, his knuckles turning white where soft skin stretches over bone, and she nods.

"That's understandable. For a lot of reasons."

"Ever feel like just…_smashing_ your fist into a wall?" he asks, turning dark, dark navy eyes on her, his chin set hard, lips pressed into a tight line.

He has bags under his eyes, puffy and red. Sooty smudges slant outwards from the bridge of his nose, adding to the look of extreme exhaustion he wears. She wants to touch him so badly, but has no idea how to do that anymore.

Kate nods gravely.

"I've done it. On more than one occasion," she admits. "Pain feels good for an instant and then…" she shakes her head. "You'll regret it tomorrow."

"I stink. I need to take a shower." he says, abruptly, cutting their discussion short, this little burst of honesty, of letting her in, closing back down with a biting, self-critical tone to his words.

"Yeah. Me too. I'll leave you to it. I'll just…upstairs," she says, backing away and jerking her head towards the door.

"Kate?" calls Castle, a hopeful, heart-stopping lift to his voice.

"Yes?" she asks, pausing halfway to the door, her heart leaping into her throat, pulse pounding in her neck, '_yes, yes, anything you want_', the eager, hopeful words running round inside her head.

"Nothing," he finally replies, after a momentary hesitation, shaking his head and turning away to close the bathroom door behind him.

All breath leaves her lungs. She has no idea what he meant to say, but whatever it was, she wishes he'd said it.

* * *

Kate carries a meager bundle of clothes, her shampoo and cosmetic bag out into the living room with her. Martha is entertaining their 'gentleman friend', the plainclothes cop, at the kitchen counter; regaling him with stories of her younger days if her raucous laughter and blatantly flirtatious gestures are anything to go by.

Kate hopes to simply lift her hand in a courteous wave and sail on through. But nothing is ever that simple where Martha is concerned. Castle's mother politely excuses herself and crosses the floor to corner Kate at the bottom of the stairs.

"How is he?" she asks, her face instantly becoming aged and serious with these three words alone.

Kate looks back over her shoulder towards the bedroom before she speaks to make certain Castle cannot overhear them discussing him, since he was so agitated and upset by it at the hospital.

"Hard to tell," she admits. "He's…he's not Castle right now, that's for sure," she shrugs. "He's so angry. But then would any of us be our normal, happy selves if we'd just been through what he has?"

"And how are you two…you know…" she says, reaching out to touch Kate's hand.

"I'm on my way upstairs to take a shower. He told me not to move my things. That I can sleep downstairs tonight. But, Martha, he's refusing to talk about anything and it just feels so…"

Kate shakes her head.

"I want him back," she confesses, catching a sudden, startling sob just before it flies out of her throat with the press of her hand to her mouth. Her eyes fill with tears and she's instantly blinded and horrified by this breakdown of self-control in front of Castle's mother.

"Oh, darling, darling," coos Martha, pulling her into an awkward hug, her belongings cradled between them. "Knowing that alone is a good, good start. But Rome wasn't built in a day, my dear. Give him time. I've never seen him stay mad at anyone for longer than a few days or weeks at most. He even got over Meredith's bad behavior eventually. So have hope. Now you're exhausted, Katherine. Go take your shower and get to bed. Things will look better in the morning, I promise."

Kate nods, wiping away tears with the back of her hand.

"Don't stay up too late," she tells Castle's mother, jerking her head towards the young policeman and giving her a watery grin.

"It's been a while since I saw the sunrise," winks Martha. "Now go, go on. Sleep well, my dear. You did a wonderful thing for this family today. No matter what happens, I will never forget that."

* * *

Kate finds herself crouched on the floor of the shower several minutes later, her knees drawn up to her chest, sitting beneath the purging hot spray, the glass stall completely filled with steam, crying, unsure how she even got here. She empties herself of all the pent up anxiety, fear and stress she's been holding inside herself since she left D.C. Her sobs are masked by the torrent of running water.

Castle is safe, if not completely undamaged, downstairs. She will lie in bed beside him tonight, a dream she thought impossible when she stepped on the plane at Ronald Regan Washington National Airport. There is a lot to be thankful for, and a lot still to work towards. She has found her way to a new beginning at least, to the frayed thread on the reel of cotton.

She struggles to her feet once her fingertips begin to prune, and then she washes herself more thoroughly than ever before. She has never worked sex crimes, has never really had to imagine what victims of rape or sexual assault go through in any detail, but she understands that it is far worse than this, and yet still she feels violated and unclean. She scrubs at her skin until it is red and burning, washes her hair three times, before finally getting out of the shower dripping wet, her body steaming and shaking from exhaustion and the cold.

In the mirror, her face looks gaunt, her jawline etched hard, her cheeks hollowed out, her nose more prominent in the center of her face. She feels embarrassed by her own reflection, sees her face as a reflection of her failure to make good choices for herself and her loved ones. She wears her failings like a mask, only it's one she cannot remove. She was running on empty in D.C., using the job as a way to outrun her own inner monologue; the one telling her this was wrong, wrong, wrong. Her heart, she assumes now, the source of that inner voice, the one she neglected to listen to.

She can't remember the last time she laughed, really laughed. Can't. And that single, random thought scares her. She knows Castle laughed when she was gone, Rachel and Lanie told her so. She wonders who needs whom more. She was alone and unhappy before she met him. He was, at least on the surface, an open, jovial, outgoing, optimistic charmer of a man. She thinks about what he is now, today, and she wonders how much of the pain she sees on his face is down to Tyson, and how much of it is actually down to her.

That she loves him is in no doubt, that she wants him was never in question, leaving him was the hardest thing she ever did. Whether she is good for him though, that is the one stumbling block, the one question that she has yet to fully, properly answer. That he has added more to her life since she met him is indisputable. Can she really say the same about her contribution to his?

* * *

Lotion calms her tight, reddened skin a little, a comb untangles her newly-shorn curls, but no amount of moisturizer can disguise the thinness of her face, the greyness; every crevice and line painted with aging exhaustion. In the end she simply turns away from the mirror all together, pulls on a pair of cotton shorts, a grey marl tank, and gathers up her belongings.

She wants to burn her clothes, but settles for balling them up tight for now - her torn underwear, bloodied shirt, dirty jeans and stained bra - tucks them like a football under her arm, and heads back downstairs.

She's unexpectedly nervous, her heart is racing a little and her palms feel clammy. This is Castle, she keeps trying to tell herself, the man you lived with for months on end, the man you love, the man you know, the man who wanted to make you his wife.

* * *

He's still in the en suite bathroom when she pads through the door, the water still running, and she's grateful for that for some reason - for the head start this gives her on getting into bed.

She dumps her dirty clothes on the floor inside the closet next to, but not inside, the laundry basket. She's bending over her bag looking for a hair tie when she sees a shaft of light fall across the bedroom floor, the distorted golden rectangle landing between her bare feet. She turns round, but not before Castle catches sight of two things – the bruises on the back of her thighs where Tyson pinned her to the bed with his knees, and the pair of diamond rings swinging down in front of her chest on the silver chain, their brilliance caught in the glow from the bathroom, sending shards of light back towards Castle that flash and dim like Morse Code.

They stare at one another for a long moment, and then Kate lets her eyes drop to where Castle's unreadable gaze is now focused.

_The rings._

"I can explain," tumbles from her lips, as she reaches for them, cradling their weight in the palm of her hand.


	23. Chapter 23 - Tormented

_A/N: Thank you again for the feedback. Much appreciated as always. A small reminder that Castle is in a very dark place right now. So without further delay, on we go with the story..._

* * *

_**Chapter 23: Tormented**_

_Recap from Ch22:_

_She dumps her dirty clothes on the floor inside the closet next to, but not inside, the laundry basket. She's bending over her bag looking for a hair tie when she sees a shaft of light fall across the bedroom floor, the distorted golden rectangle landing between her bare feet. She turns round, but not before Castle catches sight of two things – the bruises on the back of her thighs where Tyson pinned her to the bed with his knees, and the pair of diamond rings swinging down in front of her chest on the silver chain, their brilliance caught in the glow from the bathroom, sending shards of light back towards Castle that flash and dim like Morse Code._

_They stare at one another for a long moment, and then Kate lets her eyes drop to where Castle's unreadable gaze is now focused._

_The rings._

_"I can explain," tumbles from her lips, as she reaches for them, cradling their weight in the palm of her hand._

* * *

Castle attempts to brush past her.

He doesn't want to know. He's too terrified to hear her explanation right now in any case. The ring is around her neck, not on her finger. She wears her mother's ring as a reminder of a life lost, and a talisman too, he always suspected. What has his ring come to represent? Another life lost to her?

He doesn't want to know.

* * *

He has a towel wrapped low on his hips, his hair is damp, lying longer around the back of his neck than she's used to seeing, and his face is still bearded and unshaven. His torso has slimmed down from a recent lack of food, though not toned into shape since he was unable to move around much while held captive in her old bathroom. Regardless, Kate feels her face and neck heat up at the sight of him this close to naked after all this time. Something curls low and tight in her belly and her heart races a little faster.

"Castle, stop!" she says, quietly, reaching for his arm as he makes a tight-lipped bolt for the dresser.

She catches hold of him by his wrist, and he stops immediately, flinching at her touch, his posture stiff and upright, muscles tensed. At first she imagines that he is simply put off at the sight of her, disturbed by her touch, but then her eyes slip lower to where he's holding his arm out awkwardly, and she sees the source of his discomfort – the deep, swollen, purple welts around both wrists from where Tyson kept him chained and bound.

"I…I'm sorry," stutters Kate, letting go of his arm immediately. "I didn't…"

She takes time now to look at him, since he makes no further move to get away from her. Seems even to allow the slow perusal of her eyes over his body, and Kate wonders if this is another act of opening up; of slowly unfurling this unfamiliar, taut spring he has become in her absence.

Silence weighs heavy between them, filling the air with a solid presence; like a third party.

There are bruises on his back, all the way down from his shoulders to the point where the towel encircles his waist and she can see no lower.

"What did he…Castle, what did he _do_ to you?" she asks, swallowing thickly, coming closer, unselfconsciously reaching out to touch the bruised blood beneath his tan skin.

Touching him seems like such a natural act in light of their most recent past, when their open physicality towards one another knew no boundaries or restrictions.

"Don't," he says, straining away from her, his eyes still downcast.

"Painful?" asks Kate, raising her hand to touch him again, unable to stop herself, drawn earnestly to him, like iron filings to a magnet.

"No," he shakes his head, breathing unsteadily now.

Only he doesn't mean that his bruises aren't painful to the touch, because they are. He means '_No. Don't touch me_'. But this in not what Kate hears or understands.

He wants her to touch him. He wants it so badly. But he daren't allow himself to give in, knows that will be the slippery, dangerous slope to more pain and the fastest route to self-oblivion. He craves an even keel, needs stability or he can't think and if he can't think then he can't work, can't write and that is who he is. Without her, that is _all_ he is: Richard Castle, mystery novelist. At least that is what he believes to be the truth; the truth he has evolved into since she left and shut him out of her world.

* * *

Kate is slowly losing her mind being this close to him and not being able to touch him. She suspects that he wants her too, if the tortured look on his face and his stillness is anything to go by, and so she decides just to go for it; to push him like he always pushed her, forever intent on deciding what was good for her, no matter her own thoughts on the matter. Kate believes that they need one another now more than ever, that they are the only two people who fully understand the nightmare they are caught in the middle of, and that they are the only ones capable of healing the other's pain.

"Castle," she whispers, stretching out her fingertips to caress the outside of his upper arm, trailing them over his powerful bicep, the skin there unmarred by bruises or damage of any other kind. "I'll be gentle," she says, stepping in closer, until she can feel the heat of the shower radiating off his skin and her eyes momentarily slip closed.

She opens them again when she's able, finding Castle's eyes closed too. She steps in front of him, encircles his shoulders with her arms, reaching up to enfold him into a gentle, but all-consuming embrace.

He remains rigid and unbending within her arms. Kate gives it a minute, selfishly taking for herself what she needs from him – closeness, contact, his scent, the warm familiarity of his body shape, the smooth feel of his skin under her hands. He begins to breathe heavily through his nose, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his eyes focused down at the floor as he holds himself back from her, muscles tensed hard as steel.

He looks as if he's barely holding onto his sanity.

"Shhh, it's okay. Just breathe slowly," she advises, attempting to bring him closer. "You're safe now," she whispers, stroking the thicker hair on the back of his neck with her fingers.

She feels as if she is finally home. He feels as if he is drowning.

They are at odds and Kate has no idea. Her loving assertion that he is safe now is a trigger for Castle, one he cannot ignore. His shame at being unable to protect her from Jerry Tyson finally surges to the surface.

"No. No. No." His whispered chant begins so quietly that she doesn't hear it at all.

Suddenly he steps back away from her, knocking her arms free of his neck and shoulders in the process, his breathing labored, his eyes wild and frightened, shocking her.

"_Rick?_" she cries, in surprise. "What...? Rick, talk to me. Tell me what's wrong?" she asks, reaching for him again.

But he makes it to the dresser this time, ignoring her as he yanks open one drawer and then another, grabbing boxer shorts and then a t-shirt.

Before she knows what's happening he has moved past her and is closing the bathroom door in her face, the slight breeze caused by his rapid movement and the scent of his soap are the only remnants of his ever being there.

She stands outside the door, stunned, wondering what the hell just happened.

* * *

Kate has no idea what to do next. She paces the bedroom floor and is on her third sweep when the bathroom door abruptly reopens and Castle emerges dressed in the clothes he just dragged from the dresser.

"It's way past late. You should get some sleep," he says flatly, walking directly to his own side of the bed, never for a second meeting her eyes.

Kate watches him, sees that he fully intends to ignore the last ten minutes, and something inside of her sinks like a rusty anchor to the bottom of a cold, icy lake.

She's never seen him so closed off before.

Eventually, she mirrors his path, since she has no other choice: folding back the covers on her own side of the bed before she climbs in. They've done this a couple of hundred times before – it has, or used to have, a natural flow to it. They talk, they read, they gossip or they fool around, depending on many different factors. But always it is close, safe, familiar and loving.

Tonight they lie like two strangers forced by exigent, unforeseen circumstances to share a sleeper carriage on a train or a bunkroom on a storm tossed ship.

Castle sinks wordlessly beneath the surface of the sheets immediately he switches off his bedside lamp. Kate lingers for a few seconds, unsure what to do for the best. Castle's stillness eventually draws her to mirror his movements once more, and so she switches off her own light, and slides beneath the covers with as little fuss or noise as she can muster.

They lie like that in the dark, a good foot or more between them, silent, confused, hurting and needing one another more than ever…yet somehow unable to bridge the gap that has opened up between them.

* * *

Kate stares up at the ceiling, at the shapes and shadows projected across the flat surface. Being in bed, this familiar bed, feels so good, and she wants to share that thought with Castle. She lets her body sink into the down topper that coats the mattress with an extra, luxuriant layer, feeling her physical discomfort melt away. But her head and her heart remain active, noisy, pain-filled places.

She listens too, her hearing perfectly attuned to Castle's even breathing after just a few seconds in the dark. She knows him so well, even after three months spent sleeping apart, confined to different cities, that it is easy for her to tell he's still awake and merely feigning sleep. They have both long-passed the stage of exhaustion where sleeping standing up is a possibility, and are now in the stage where merely a quiet mind is the immediate goal. Without the opportunity to share their fears and discuss at least some of the issues keeping them apart, Kate has no idea how sleep will ever be achieved.

Her need to engage him gnaws at her like an itch, leaves her feeling nervous, jittery and keyed-up. She rolls onto her side, needing to make some kind of sound, to send him a signal that she too is awake if he's ready. Eventually she comes to rest inert on her left side, so that she is facing the long, broad line of his back. And then she waits.

He's never been good at remaining silent for long. Captain Gates would be the first to testify to that. And so it is tonight. Kate waits him out, and eventually she gets a reward of sorts. Only the question that comes out of his mouth is not anywhere close to one she might have been hoping for or expecting.

He takes a breath and she holds hers.

* * *

"Why did you let him touch you?"

His voice is a clench-jawed growl in the dark.

"I'm sorry?" asks Kate, unable to believe that this is how he's starting things off between them, that _this_ is the one question preoccupying him enough to keep him from sleep.

Not _'why are you here_', '_what does that mean for us_', '_why are you wearing the ring_' or even '_what are we doing_'? There are a myriad more pressing questions she expects he must need answers to, but not this, surely.

"Tyson. Why did you give yourself up to him without a fight? And don't deny it, Kate. I heard everything," he says, his voice a low bitter hiss at the back of his throat.

Kate freezes, and a knot of emotion gathers in the base of her throat, clogging it, as the full impact of her own disappointment hits her like a violent wave. She rolls away from him again, onto her back, in an effort to clear it, needing to find a way to breathe around the painful constriction in her throat muscles.

But Castle rolls too, following her, the whisper of his body moving beneath the sheets sounding so loud in her ears, until he comes to rest on his back beside her.

"You think…you _honestly_ think I was some kind of willing participant in that…"

She stalls, struggles upright into a sitting position, unable to find an adequate description for what Tyson did to her, to both of them.

Abomination, sexual assault, mock-rape, perversion, mind-game… There are lots of ways to describe it, only she can't come up with a single one right now. She's too hurt and disappointed that on some level his personal pride has been hurt, his manhood called into question just a Tyson intended it to be, and he's fallen for it.

"I _know_ what I heard," repeats Castle, suddenly sitting up in bed beside her.

"You know what?" says Kate, throwing the covers back and swinging her legs out of bed. "_This_ was a mistake. Thinking we could sleep next to one another tonight. I feel sorry for you, I do. You've been through a…a _terrible_ ordeal, Castle. But you weren't the only one. Your mom, Alexis, all of your friends…they've all been suffering too. And if you want to fix this, for yourself most of all, you're going to have to talk about it. Accusing me of…of whatever this is…"

"Talk? That's a little rich, coming from you, don't you think?" he points out.

"Nice, Castle. Nice," she replies, folding her arms across her chest.

"I _saw_ the bruises on your thighs. Your skin…it's…we've made marks like that too, Beckett. _So_…things got a little rough. One part of my mind knows that he forced you. He _raped_ you," he grits out, as if the word leaves an acrid, bitter taste on his tongue, but he still has to say it to exorcise the demon. "But the other part heard two people…I'm telling myself you only pretended to enjoy it to humor him, to get through it alive. But it's eating at me goddammit. I _hate_ that you let him do those things to you. I _hate it!_ And sometimes I think I hate you," he confesses, his voice cracking. "All I can hear in my head is you moaning...your pleasure and his—"

"_Yours!_" Kate yells, jumping out of bed, needing to get away from him. "_Your moans_. _That's_ what you heard, Castle. He _bugged_ this house, he used a recording of us having sex…and you know what? He's _winning_," she says, looking at him in the near-darkness, her eyes glittering with tears. "He's winning because he's forced a wedge between us, like we needed anymore hurdles to overcome. And now _he's_ _winning_. Tyson didn't rape me. He wanted you to _think_ he did so you'd react just as you are. As if your macho pride has been dented. He made your girlfriend want him? How _sick_ is that? And you're letting yourself believe it. And now he's winning," she says, her throat rough with exhaustion, angrily swiping away a tear, as she shakes her head and backs away from the bed.

Castle listens to her explanation, but seems unconvinced or unmoved.

"I need to sleep," sighs Kate, her tone now soft and spent. "You need to sleep too."

She turns away, and then turns back, thinking better of it.

"I have _so much_ I need to say to you. So much, Castle," she tells him, with a deep, serious longing in her voice. "But you were right. Tonight is not the time. You're too angry. And we're both too upset and exhausted. I'll sleep upstairs. But I want you to know one thing. I'm not running, this is _not_ me running. I want us to talk…about everything," she promises, not waiting for or expecting an answer from him.

She gets none, and her disappointment deepens.

"Just remember one thing. You _know me_. Think about that," she asks. "I'll see you in the morning. Try and get some sleep," she finishes, hurt still coating her voice.

* * *

Kate is right. Castle's male pride has been dented by the mock-rape, if that's what it was, and by the fact of his inability to protect her and spare her that indignity. But his abused, exhausted brain won't let him go after her, comfort her, forgive her, and apologize like he knows deep down he should. He's still hung up on the fact of her leaving, on the truth that she only came back to New York because Tyson engineered it that way. And he still half-believes what he heard coming from the bedroom to be Kate and Tyson after all the poisonous lies he was fed by the evil, vengeful man who calculatingly set out to destroy them, with detail and precision worthy of the most dangerous criminal mind.

She's also right that at this moment Tyson is winning. But the painful twist in his gut and the noisy confusion in his damaged mind won't let him fight back just yet. He needs time, he is in fact sick, though he doesn't realize that yet. And so he falls back on his pillows shaking his head and palming his face, torn-up inside by the knowledge that his need to act is currently being rendered impotent by his own immediate inability to make it happen.

After what seems like hours of self-torture: lining up and pulling apart every little shred of evidence he can find to dredge from inside the darkness of his mind, Castle eventually finds sleep. A couple of hours later he wakes from a tormented dream, his t-shirt dampened by a cold, clammy sweat, his mouth dry, tongue arid and foul. He gets out of bed, his body heavy, his joints stiff. He feels far older than his forty-two years. One look in the mirror confirms this. He splashes his face with cold water, brushes his teeth, and then strips off his shirt and boxers before submitting to yet another scalding hot shower.

His shoulder muscles crave the burn and the pounding of the water; tight as bands they are beneath his skin. He washes brusquely, dries himself roughly, and then goes back to the bedroom to get dressed in sweats and a fresh t-shirt.

* * *

"Oh, dear God! You scared me," exclaims Martha, when he enters the living room, his beard a dark, glossy thickness now that he refuses to remove.

Castle nods wordlessly at his mother.

"How did you sleep?" she asks, quietly, watching him with wary eyes. "Is Katherine in the shower or still sleeping?"

"No idea. Beckett's upstairs," he tells his mother flatly, padding over to the coffee pot to pour himself a mug.

"Oh, darling," sighs Martha, following him around the kitchen with her concerned gaze. "Whatever happened? You two didn't have a falling out, did you?"

"You have to be _'in'_ something, whatever _that_ means, to fall out," mutters Castle, momentarily smiling to himself at his clever little observation.

"Richard, be serious for a second," scolds Martha.

"I am, mother. Deadly," he replies, with chilling recalcitrance.

"So why did she leave? The poor girl was exhausted."

"Oh, the poor girl is it now?" he asks, sarcastically. "Not what you were saying a few weeks ago, mother," he reminds her. 'When you told me to _'buck up and move on'_, wasn't it?"

"Yes, well, we all make mistakes. You, me, and Katherine included. She's sorry, she's—"

"You know what? This is private. Do you hear? _Private_," insists Castle, startling his mother with his strident tone. "I refuse to be the bad guy here, the butt of your little jibes and…and the—"

Before Castle can say anymore, there is a knock at the front door.

"Saved by the bell. How apt," notes Martha, her tone dry and clipped, as she tries to hide her hurt at her son's outburst with humor.

Castle sets down his mug of coffee heavily, cracking the porcelain sharply against the marble of the countertop, sloppily spilling coffee in the process, before he walks away from his mother to answer the front door.

"_My, my,_" sings Special Agent Jordan Shaw, staring at Castle's dark and so far untrimmed beard, Rachel McCord standing serious and unsmiling by her side. "Just who do we have here?"


	24. Chapter 24 - Proof Positive

_A/N: Thank you, thank you! Onwards..._

* * *

_**Chapter 24: Proof Positive**_

Kate is sitting up in bed, her knees hugged to her chest beneath the comforter, her chin resting on top, as she thinks about the mountain she has ahead of her still to climb. Tyson is on the loose somewhere, Castle is a mess, they need to find a way to start communicating if they are to have any chance of beginning to heal, of clawing their way back to something.

The sole point of coming back from D.C. was to find Castle at all cost and bring him home. Well, she may have accomplished that feat, but the task ahead seems as big and scary and impossible as ever.

She hears the front door slam, then multiple sets of feet treading the living room floor, and new, female voices that she strains to place. She quickly gets out of bed, grabs a guest robe from the back of the en suite bathroom door and tugs it on over the cotton shorts and tank she slept in, roughly tying the belt around her waist, which is a couple of inches narrower than before she left New York. Worry, stress and her soulless time spent living alone in D.C. have all taken their toll on her body after she closed her mind off to thoughts of home and surrendered herself to the job.

Her stomach growls loudly, reminding her that it has been hours since she last ate anything.

She's still on high alert for news about Tyson. Feels frustrated at not being at the center of the chase, though she knows that she was in no fit state to participate last night. She's still without her cell phone, and that practical fact leaves her feeling further cut off from the action.

Restless energy and worry over Castle's mental state prevented her from sleeping anything close to soundly. Still, she got two or three solid hours of fitful sleep, and awoke something close to rested by her own standards, if not by those in normal civilian life.

She runs her fingers through her hair to untangle the curls that accumulated after her shower last night, washes her face under the cold stream of water, and then gives herself a final once over. She doesn't even look healthy, if you were really being critical – her skin too pale, the circles under each eye too dark, her lip cut and swollen, a new purpling bruise forming a black eye where Tyson struck her across the face and pain exploded in her right sinus and cheekbone. She sighs, squares her shoulders and turns away from the mirror, thinking that she must phone her dad while she's in the city, that he'd be hurt if he knew she was in town and hadn't called.

* * *

She's mentally composing a sanitized version of events for her father as she descends the stairs, when one clear voice she definitely recognizes drifts up to meet her, its slightly nasal notes grating on her throbbing, uncaffeinated brain.

"Ah, here she is. The hero of the hour!" declares Jordan Shaw, breaking into a brief round of applause, as Kate pads barefoot down the last of the open-tread stairs.

Kate catches Castle's eye the second she hits the level, and the look on his face tells her sleep was not the balm she hoped it would be. He looks angry, murderous even, and the beard isn't helping any. He observes her face a second longer, eyes lingering on her cuts and bruises, and she sees the second his anger molts becoming something else; like guilt or grief.

Rachel McCord immediately comes towards her, welcoming her with a sincere hug. She holds Kate firmly but carefully for a few seconds before letting go.

"How're you holding up?" she asks, quietly, pulling back to look at Kate's face, to read the honest answer she knows she'll find there.

Kate falters for a second, trying to conjure up a response to Rachel's question that will be both halfway to truthful and yet publicly acceptable at the same time. She looks past the detective to find Castle eyeing them both with interest. She's not sure if he was even aware that they know each other, or how well, since he's been completely out of the loop since she got back and they haven't had any chance to catch up.

"I…uh..tired mostly. But I'll be fine," nods Kate, distracted by Castle's searching gaze, pulling the robe tighter around her body. "Any news?" she asks, keen to move the focus off herself and back onto the investigation.

"Why don't we sit?" suggests Jordan, looking over at the kitchen counter, where Martha is hovering with a damp cloth, observing but attempting not to get in the way.

"You must have something or you wouldn't be here, right?" asks Kate, hoping this is not just some social visit, when they could be out looking for Tyson.

"I'll get out of your hair, darling," Martha tells Kate, much to Castle's annoyance, leaving him feeling like a by-stander in his own home, while the women assemble round the island and then settle on stools.

Kate pours a mug of coffee and then she walks to Castle's side. He's leaning against the countertop over by the sink, and she touches his arm gently so as not to startle him, and then holds out the coffee like a peace offering.

"Hey," she says, stretching up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, lightly coasting her free hand down his arm in the process. "Get any sleep?"

Castle tolerates her kiss, stiffening at the last moment so that it lands low down on his hirsute jaw, missing her intended target. Kate knows the two women are watching them, can feel their eyes upon her back, as discreet as they might think they're being.

"Here. I'm sure you could use this. I know I can," she says, pushing the mug into his hand, trying not to reveal that there is any rift between them, and trying not to show how much his schooled indifference is hurting her.

"Already had one, thanks," he tells her, pushing the mug back onto her.

"Please, Castle. Not here," she warns him, her voice barely above a whisper. "Park it," she says, touching his elbow, before turning away to join Rachel and Jordan, a fixed, tired smile on her face.

* * *

"So, I don't know whether to high five you or write you up, detective," says Jordan, seizing the bull by the horns as usual.

Castle remains over by the sink, lounging against the countertop like a moody teen, pretending not to have much interest in their discussion. If Jordan's use of the term 'detective' in reference to Kate reaches his ears and piques his curiosity, he doesn't show it.

"That was quite a risk you took, going in after Tyson like that without telling anyone."

"I left my phone turned on in the car. That app Danny uploaded to my cell did the job, didn't it?" states Kate, a little defensively she knows.

"Some might say a little too late," says Jordan, her trademark smirk and arched eyebrow turned on Kate.

"Yeah, well, all's well that ends well, right?" murmurs Kate, lifting the coffee to her lips and taking a welcome sip.

"You're just lucky Rachel took all the calls from your realtor. That woman was persistent."

"Yeah. Unpaid rent. It's always the small things," admits Kate, tracing the tip of her finger around the rim of her mug. "I always wondered how these guys could go to the lengths they do to plan such elaborate crimes, and then slip-up on the basic day-to-day practicalities?" she says, her question mostly aimed at Jordan.

Castle has no idea how Kate was tipped off that Tyson was holding him in her old apartment, so suddenly he finds himself listening in to their discussion with renewed interest.

"From all the profiling I've done over the years, I'd usually say it's because sociopaths of Tyson's type are incapable of dealing with everyday life. Their organizational skills falter on the mundane because of a wide range of mental dysfunctions, which are often heightened and accompanied by problems rooted in childhood. For example, undiagnosed dyslexia, dysgraphia or dyspraxia. Some have poor fine motor skills, and more recently we're seeing ADD or ADHD appearing in our profile classifications. They're able to focus on the specific details that are essential to planning and carrying out their crimes usually because they are driven by some kind of obsessive impulse based compulsion or perversion. But the tidy-mind syndrome you or I might employ to tie up loose ends, cover off every detail and ensure completeness escapes them. However, I can't claim that in Tyson's case. He is one smart cookie."

"What do you mean?" asks Kate, puzzled by Jordan's statement.

She produces a clear plastic evidence bag from her folder and slides it across the counter at Kate.

Kate looks down at it. There's an envelope inside and her name has been written on the outside in a careful, long-practiced script. It reads: _Katherine Houghton Beckett_.

Kate is instantly struck by a memory of the last time she heard her name used in full – the day Castle dropped to one knee in the park and proposed to her – and she finds her fingers migrating to the center of her chest searching out the rings hanging beneath her shirt.

Unbeknown to her, Castle has moved closer to get a better look at the evidence bag, and he catches the gesture a nanosecond after he reads her name written in Tyson's hand on the back of the envelope. The gesture and the meaning behind it does not go amiss. Kate senses him at her back and turns to look up at him, but he looks away without meeting her eyes, finally taking up a spot at the counter with them on the free stool opposite Rachel.

* * *

"What…what's in here?" asks Kate, letting her fingers finally land on top of the evidence bag.

Her exposed wrist is red-raw where it pokes out from beneath the sleeve of the robe, and she sees Castle's eyes drop until he is staring at the unsightly bruised welt, a look of hurt and guilt on his face. She quickly withdraws her hand and tugs the sleeve back down over her wrist to cover it up, laying it back in her lap.

"Tyson's back rent, would you believe?" says Shaw, shaking her head. "A neat bundle of brand new, unmarked fifties."

"Untraceable, of course," adds Rachel.

"So, what…he _used_ the non-payment of rent as a way to let me know he was there, hiding in my apartment? A way to _lure us_?" asks Kate, her voice revealing surprise. "How could he possibly have known that would work?"

"He met your Mrs. Shapiro, don't forget. The pushy, pitbull of a rental agent. You know there'd be a lot less tax evasion in this country if the Mrs. Shapiros of the world worked for the IRS," jokes Jordan.

"Was there anything else in the envelope besides the cash?" asks Castle, joining the conversation for the first time.

Kate turns to look at him, but he keeps his eyes trained on Jordan Shaw waiting for an answer to his question.

"There was a letter," confirms Jordan, drawing the evidence bag back towards her and replacing it with a second one. "Addressed to Kate," she adds, tapping her fingers on top of the letter, which is turned face down on the counter so that its contents are obscured from view.

Jordan lets her last point sink in, watching Castle's face all the while, and then she turns to look at Kate.

"You might want to ignore the note for now," she advises, leaving it out on the table for her to turn over if she so wishes. "There was nothing of investigative value in it. No clever hints or clues. Just the ramblings of—"

"But it's evidence, surely?" says Castle, earnestly, a look on his face that betrays his burning desire to read the contents of the note.

"You already logged it, I'm assuming? Took fingerprints and matched it against pervious handwriting samples to make sure it's from him?" asks Kate.

"Of course," confirms Jordan. "And we'll be adding it to the annals of FBI serial killer history once this whole thing is wrapped up. Doesn't mean you need what's in there crowding out your brain right now."

"I think I should be the one to decide that, don't you?" points out Kate.

"This isn't a slight, detective. It's a suggestion. You are free to read it if you wish, of course. I merely thought you'd been through enough the last twenty-four hours, that's all."

"I appreciate your concern. But I think it would be…remiss of me not to read it while the investigation into Tyson's disappearance is on-going."

"And that is your prerogative, Kate," smiles Jordan, confidently, almost as if she knew this would be Kate's answer from the start. "I'll leave a copy with you. Now can we move onto other matters?"

Castle's eyes burn into the uppermost side of the evidence bag, as if staring at the plastic sealed page for long enough will somehow allow him to read what's written underneath.

* * *

"CSU should be finished processing your apartment later today. Tyson considerately left his set of keys hanging on a hook by the front door. Though I'd highly recommend getting a locksmith in," says Jordan, dryly, adding, "And maybe a commercial cleaning company come to think of it."

"I plan on handing the keys back to the realtor. I don't want anything more to do with the place," Kate informs them, factually, unemotionally.

Both Jordan and Rachel nod in understanding. Castle says nothing, only examines his fingers where his hands rest on top of the counter, betraying not a flicker of emotion or apparent interest.

"I understand. After everything you two have been through I don't imagine it will be the happy place you remember," offers Jordan, by way of a gentle fishing expedition.

Kate takes a sip of coffee and nods thoughtfully.

"He can't take our memories," says Kate, briefly glancing at Castle. "I just don't need the place anymore," she adds, cryptically, finally drawing a look, a surprised, questioning one at that, from Castle.

She gives him a painfully weak smile, which he does his best to return, though it's slightly lost in the confusion clouding his eyes.

* * *

"What about the C4? Any leads? Find any particular signature?" asks Kate, keeping things moving along.

"You didn't ask if we disarmed the bomb," points out Jordan, with a grin.

"You wouldn't be sitting here drinking coffee in this man's kitchen if you hadn't," parries Kate, giving Jordan her best smile to date.

"True. They're trying to identify the chemical taggant as we speak. The lab is analyzing samples of DMDNB* and looking for traces of any post-detonation taggant that might have been added to the mix. They've had some luck with some of the newer technology recently. Microscopic polymer or metallic particles that can narrow it down to batch number level."

"Yeah, I heard about that," replies Kate. "Some of the anti-terror guys in D.C. have been pushing for a change in the law to…"

Kate feels Castle bristle beside her, a slight drop in temperature from cool to frosty, mention of her time spent in D.C. clearly not a welcome topic.

"Anyway," she says, abruptly changing the subject, "let's hope they can trace the source. I still can't believe he planned all of this without getting help from somewhere."

"And neatly leading on from that point, since Kate raised it," says Jordan, addressing a depressed looking Castle, "is some positive news on the widened scope of the investigation and the weight we'll have to bring when the case finally comes to court."

"_Court?_ You have to catch the guy first," interjects Castle, sounding edgy and frustrated.

"And we will," reassures Jordan, calmly, unphased by Castle's aggression. "All I'm saying is that with the addition of a sizeable bomb to the picture we now have additional powers to hunt and hold when we finally catch up with him. Tyson's latest party trick is being considered an act of domestic terror by head office. Now that might not be exactly how you would choose to view it, since I understand how personal this has become for you. For both of you. But believe me, with the Patriot Act on our side and the additional manpower I'm able to call upon as a result, you won't be left questioning whether it's a good idea or not when we track the bastard down."

* * *

"What about Jessie Calman?" asks Kate, suddenly. "You had a detail on her. Did you find anything?"

Rachel steps in at this point to pick up the story.

"Jessie managed to give our guys the slip, I'm afraid," she says, gingerly, wincing slightly at the end. "She hasn't shown up to work since yesterday either."

"What? _How?_" demands Kate.

Castle looks adrift.

"Can someone please explain who Jessie Calman is and why she seems so…important?" he says, looking to Rachel then Kate and back again.

"She's Tyson's girlfriend," says Kate, swiveling on her stool to answer Castle's question.

"Or thinks she is," chips in Rachel.

"Jerry Tyson had a girlfriend?" asks Castle, clearly shocked.

"Mmm. Rachel and I went to interview her late yesterday," continues Kate. "She works at the same hospital as Kelly, only in radiology. Somehow she got access to the anesthesia drug you were given. At least that's the theory we're working on, since the vial Ryan found in the trash at my old apartment had a Memorial Sloan-Kettering label on it. Tyson had to get the drugs he used from somewhere."

"And you were following her and you lost her?" Castle asks Rachel in disbelief.

"We assigned a detail to sit on her place _after_ Kate tipped us off about the drugs. When Tyson escaped he needed somewhere to go. If she's been helping him Kate thought that maybe he would go there."

"And if he plays true to form I thought she might be in danger if he's tying up loose ends."

"Does Kelly know this woman?" asks Castle, leaving Kate wondering why that even matters right now.

"No. Why?" asks Rachel.

"Just…nothing," says Castle, rubbing a hand down over his bearded chin, lost in thought.

* * *

"Before we go, and I know this is delicate, but…do you still have your clothes? The ones you were wearing yesterday?" Jordan asks Kate.

Kate's face flushes pink. She feels Castle's body tense on the stool beside her.

"Eh…yes, I…I was going to throw them away, but…"

"Good. If we could take them with us?" asks Jordan, while Rachel shifts uncomfortably in her seat.

Castle is sitting so still that Kate wonders if he's even breathing anymore. When she looks at him, his face is set hard like stone.

"Why do you even need them? I…I mean it's not as if there's any physical evidence to recover," she stammers, wanting this particular subject to just go away.

"We're building a case against him, Kate. This is just one more element in that case. He assaulted a member of law enforcement…violently. Restrained you, held you at knife point…we also need a police photographer to document your wounds…"

"Okay, stop!" interrupts Kate, holding up her hand before Jordan can say anymore.

Rachel eyes Castle with wary concern.

"I'll…I'll just go get them," she offers, not wanting Castle to hear anymore than he just has. "I left them lying on the floor of the closet. Do you have…?"

"I have an evidence bag right here," says Jordan, producing a brown paper sack for her.

Kate leaves the room and Jordan follows her as far as the outer wall of Castle's office, lingering amongst the bookshelves, touching spines and admiring his eclectic reading tastes while Kate collects her dirty laundry from inside Castle's closet.

* * *

"How're you doing, Rick?" asks Rachel, now that two of them are alone.

He gets up, pours himself a mug of coffee and offers her a top-up. Then he sits back down heavily, dropping his head into his hands. The caffeine-scented steam drifting up from the hot coffee beneath his face opens up his pores with a ticklish dampness, while the scent sharpens his exhausted mind.

"How do you think?" he asks, though the question is without sarcasm or venom at first. It's flat, like all his interactions right now.

"That bastard raped my…" he pauses, breathing heavily through his nose, to look up at her with angry tears in his eyes. "She submitted herself to that indignity to save my ass," he hisses, finally letting out some of his rage. "How do you think I feel?"

"Have you talked to Kate about any of this?" asks Rachel, gently, reaching across the counter to cover one of his hands with her own.

"Briefly. During the night. I…it wasn't my finest hour, shall we say," he confesses, picking up the coffee mug and taking a long gulp of the hot, bitter liquid.

"What makes you say that?" asks Rachel, patiently attempting to draw him out.

"Look, I know what you're doing," he rebuts. "I followed Beckett around for five years, lived with her for most of the last one. She's…she's an expert at this, so…"

"And what? You think that makes you some kind of expert at reading people?" asks Rachel, getting a little harder on him, since she can see the unhealthy direction his mind is headed.

"No. But I know when I'm being interrogated...and humored. I'm not an idiot, Rachel."

"Do you also know when someone is telling you the truth?"

"I hope. Mostly."

"And Kate, what did she tell you about Tyson? Because you used the word rape just now and…"

"She said it didn't happen," Castle interrupts, shaking his head, a bitter little smile on his face.

"And you think she just said those things to…_what?_ Make you feel better?"

Castle shrugs.

"You think she'd lie to you after everything you've been through?"

"I don't know much of anything anymore," he admits, his shoulders slumping.

"Well, I know self-pity when I see it, and it is _ugly_, Rick. She put herself in serious danger for you, made herself, at best, a professional laughing stock going in there without back-up or…or any kind of a plan. Tyson didn't _rape her_. And if you continue to belief that he did…that Kate is _lying_ to you, then you're a bigger fool than I thought. And you're also letting that monster win."

"Way to sugarcoat things, Detective McCord," says Castle, eyeballing her over his coffee cup, gratefully soaking up the information she just gave him all the same.

"Dumb is one quality I insist on not having in a partner. Bad jokes, won't stand a round at the bar, even smelly feet I can put up with. But dumb is a non-negotiable. So forgive me if I thought you needed straightened out on this point," she tells him, her voice low and controlled. "She put her life on the line for you…not to mention her job. I know you're angry with her for the way she left. Okay, I get that. We worked well together, you and I, before all of this mess got in the way. But there were times your head was up your ass, Rick. Don't think I didn't notice."

"Charming."

"Yeah, you could be that too," she jokes, dryly. "But also stubborn and irritating. Kate's a great girl…"

"Your type, is she?" pipes up Castle, dully.

"I'm going to ignore that remark, jackass. She's sorry she left like she did. I know it's not really any of my business, but I know you still have feelings for her and she clearly still—"

"You know what, you're right," cuts in Castle, abruptly, not wanting to hear anymore. "This isn't any of your business, or anyone else's for that matter. I appreciate you telling me about Tyson, I do. But as for the rest of it…I can do without the counseling session. My mother, Alexis…they're enough of a Kate Beckett cheering squad right now. So, don't take this the wrong way, but—"

"You want me to butt out?" grins Rachel, not in the least bit offended by Castle's request, pleased even that she's at least managed to shake him out of the depressed stupor he was slipping into.

"That about sums it up."

"Fine. So long as you promise to cut her some slack, listen to what she's trying to tell you, and don't let your idiotic male pride get in the way."

"I will do my best, Detective," he says, finally able to summon up a genuine smile. "I am but a lowly male. But I will do my best."

* * *

Kate comes out of the bedroom with her dirty clothes folded into the paper evidence sack, to find Rachel and Castle joking with one another across the kitchen counter.

"Hard to watch?" murmurs Jordan, following Kate's gaze as she observes the other two, her expression strained.

"No. Actually, I'm just glad someone finally got him to smile," admits Kate.

"Rough night?" asks Jordan, taking the bag from her.

"I spent the night in the guest room from around two o'clock," she offers by way of confirmation, too tired to get into the detail.

"Right," nods Jordan, sagely.

"What they say about not going to sleep on an argument is definitely true. But we just don't seem able to find a way to even begin discussing anything right now."

"It's early days, Kate. Don't give up just yet. He's still traumatized by what he's been through. You know, if he doesn't have someone already, you might want to think about getting him a little professional help," she suggests, arching an eyebrow at Kate, as they continue to watch Rachel and Castle chat in the kitchen. "He might find it easier to open up to someone who's less…_invested_," she shrugs.

"I actually have someone in mind. Someone I saw in the past…after I was shot. I was thinking about giving him a call, now you mention it. If for no other reason than Castle never met him and his curiosity might get the better of him, that might be one way to get him to attend a session or two."

"Men and their pride, hmm?" smiles Jordan.

"Something like that," replies Kate, as they walk back towards the kitchen together to rejoin the others.

* * *

"Oh, before I forget. You'll be needing this," says Rachel, pulling Kate's cell phone out of her jacket pocket as she hops down off her stool.

"Oh, thanks. You found it," smiles Kate, pleased to get her phone back.

"And impound has your car, detective. Leaving it in a tow-away zone was a risky move," adds Jordan, grinning.

"I did not!" declares Kate, indignantly, and Jordan and Rachel start to laugh.

Castle looks at Kate, his face a picture of perfectly serious puzzlement, and her heart sinks for what he's become; how strained and detached, slow even, lacking any of his usual optimistic levity and quick wit.

"I think we've just been punked," she tells him, bumping his shoulder lightly and attempting to get him to smile.

"Right," he nods, straining to find a smile to give back.

"Great. Then, we'll be off," says Jordan, as she and Rachel both turn towards the front door.

"Thanks for coming over to update us. I just need an hour or so to grab a shower and get something to eat. Then I'll be right in," says Kate.

"You sure?" asks Jordan, though without any surprise. "Take a day. No one would blame you."

"No. I need to be there. While he's still out there, Castle and his family aren't safe. I'll be right behind you," she assures the FBI Agent.

* * *

Once Jordan and Rachel leave, Castle and Kate find themselves alone in the kitchen.

"You know you don't have to do this," Castle says, while washing their mugs in the sink.

Kate is sitting on a stool at the counter, wanting to talk but not knowing where to begin.

"I know. But I want to. Would you understand if I said I needed to?" she asks, striving for honesty, no matter how difficult.

Castle drops the soapy sponge he's holding and a mug floats to the bottom of the washing up bowl where is lands with a muffled thud. He dries his hands on a towel and turns to face her.

"Rachel set me straight about…about what happened with Tyson," he confesses, finally looking up at her.

"If that's an apology it's a pretty poor attempt, Castle," she jokes, so glad that he finally believes her, a weight lifting from her shoulders.

His face still looks so serious and sad.

"Okay, so maybe we're not quite at the joking stage yet. Listen, I've been thinking," she begins.

Castle feels fear and panic building in him once more, nowhere near ready to get into anything difficult or emotional with her right now.

"Kate!" he interrupts. "If this is about us, I know we need to talk but—"

"No. No, you're right. We do need to talk. But this was…I was going to suggest you might find it helpful to talk to someone actually. Someone independent."

"Like a therapist?"

"Yes. I…I was going to suggest Dr. Burke, the therapist I saw after I was shot if you… He's good, patient, he works with the police so he has some understanding of…" Kate sighs, withering under Castle's direct gaze. "I'm not explaining myself very well," she adds, her cheeks coloring slightly.

"Take your time."

"What I mean is, he helped me with my PTSD and with…with us," she tells him quietly. "Before."

"You never talked about any of that," notes Castle, watching her.

"Not…not a happy time," admits Kate, with a weak smile. "But the point is, he helped me through it and I think he might be able to help you too. What have to got to lose?"

"Right now? Nothing, I guess," admits Castle.

"Great. Then I'll give him a call, and you can schedule an appointment with him whenever suits."

"Thanks. Appreciate that," he nods, stiffly, as if they are colleagues exchanging business cards.

"How's the writing going?" asks Kate, craving the opportunity to build some sort of normality on top of this shaky start at communication.

"Can we…can we not do this right now?" asks Castle, backing away and then turning around to face the sink again.

Kate can't hide the hurt on her face, but then Castle isn't around to see it, since he's almost elbow deep in Dawn suds, cleaning coffee mugs with overzealous vigor.

"I'm going to take a shower," Kate tells the stiff line of his back, lifting the copy of Tyson's letter that Jordan left behind for her off the counter. "I'll use the en suite in…in your room, if you don't mind? My things are still downstairs and—"

"It's fine. You don't have to explain. My mother said she persuaded you to stay, so…" he shrugs, turning to look at her finally. "Treat the place as your own."

"Thanks," she nods. "I'll just go…" she jerks her head towards the bedroom.

Castle takes a deep breath, remembering the recent tongue-lashing Rachel just gave him.

"Kate? You must be starving. I'll make you some breakfast. I can have it ready by the time you finish up in there."

Kate feels her throat clog up with tears at this simple kindness.

"Thank you. That would be a big help," she adds, nodding once more, before she backs away and heads for the bathroom.

* * *

She showers quickly, dries and dresses within fifteen minutes, her hair still fresh from her shower the night before.

She's just strapping on her father's watch when Castle taps on the bedroom door.

"Come in," she calls out, turning round to face him.

"Breakfast is ready when you are," he tells her, his eyes widening when she calls out her thanks and turns away to lift her Glock from the dresser.

"Kate, you have blood on your shirt," he says, coming closer.

She's wearing jeans and a white t-shirt. When she goes into the bathroom, twisting in front of the mirror to see what he's referring to, she spots the watery red bloom on the back of her shirt.

"Shit!" she curses. "The butterfly stitches, they must have come loose in the shower. Do you still have any of those…?"

"Live with a cop, you can't not have Steri-Strips in your first aid kit," he jokes, and they both stare at one another as soon as this tiny piece of what looks a lot like progress flies out of his mouth.

Kate smiles, her cheeks feeling stiff and unnatural from lack of use.

"I…I'll just," Castle points past her to the closet under the vanity.

"Sure," mumbles Kate, moving out of the way to let him in.

He hands her the basket of first aid things and prepares to leave the room. A more well-stocked kit she had rarely seen when she first began staying over at the loft.

"Eh…the wound is pretty high up on my back. Do you think you could maybe…?"

"You need help?" he asks, looking close to frightened.

"Yeah. Is that…would that be okay?"

"I can see if Alexis is free," he offers, backing towards the door.

"Castle," sighs Kate, turning away from him to strip off her stained t-shirt. "Just fix it, will you?"

* * *

She stands there in her bra with her arms hugged around her body, her hair short enough now that the top of her spine is left exposed beneath the fringe of curls at the back of her neck. When he makes no further move towards her she, looks back over her shoulder at him. He's staring at her bare skin, a look of fear and desire co-mingling on his face, his expression well-mirroring her own she suspects.

"It's okay. You can touch me," she tells him quietly. "I trust you."

He finally comes closer, lifts his hand up, reaches out his fingertips to trace the fine, red score that runs the length of her spine where Tyson ran the tip of the knife all the way down her back, skirts her shoulder blade to dance over the dark bruise on one side, then glides his fingers lower to caress the circular bruise near the waist of her low-rise jeans where Tyson pressed his full weight behind his knee into her lower back to hold her still on the bed.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers finally, his throat rough, the combination of his warm breath and his fingers on her skin raising goose bumps all over her back. Her nipples pucker beneath her bra at being touched something close to lovingly for the first time in months and her eyes slip closed.

"Shhh. It's not your fault," replies Kate, standing exactly as she was, with her back to him, lest she break this spell of confession between them.

"He abused you, and I wouldn't believe you. That makes me just as bad."

"No. No, that makes you human. What he did to you…the poison he fed you, the lies? Anyone else would have broken by now, Castle. But you're too strong for him," she tells him, willing it to be true just by saying it.

"I don't feel strong," he confesses, touching her skin again, his fingers caressing the narrow curve of her waist, seeing for the first time how thin she has become since they have been apart.

"You will. Just give it time."

* * *

He reaches into the first aid kit, slowly pulls out the things he needs to patch her up – hydrogen peroxide, cotton balls, new butterfly stitches - and then he gets to work.

Kate hisses when he cleans the wound and the antiseptic burns, and Castle apologizes profusely when he hurts her.

"You're not doing it right if it doesn't hurt," she tries to joke, catching his hands shaking when she briefly glances over her shoulder at him.

"There, all done," he tells her, once he finishes up. "That should hold it together hopefully."

"Thanks. I think I might put on a darker shirt just in case," she adds turning to face him, watching him avert his eyes when she stands before him in just her bra and jeans.

"I'll…I'll leave you to it then. Breakfast is outside when you're ready."

"Castle?" Kate calls out, stopping him just by the door.

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

"What for?" he asks, puzzlement lining his face.

"For letting me stay. I know how badly I've screwed up. I really want us to have a chance to—"

Castle abruptly cuts her off.

"Later," he interrupts, causing her face to fall. "Later, okay?" he adds a little more softly. "Once the Feds have this guy in custody or…or a pine box."

"Right," nods Kate, her hopes deflated. "Later," she repeats.

* * *

She eats the breakfast he made for her, while they swap places. Castle goes off to the bedroom, while Kate chokes down eggs and bacon, coffee and fruit in silence. He's still in the bathroom when she goes back to the bedroom to fetch her jacket, gun and bag.

"_Oh!"_ he jumps in surprise, coming out of the en suite to find her emerging from the closet.

"I'm just…" she jerks her thumb towards the door. "I'm just about to leave."

"Right," he nods, stiffly.

"Will you be okay? I don't like leaving you here. But I think my being around might be doing more harm than good right now," she confesses, taking another stab at honesty.

"I…Kate, look, I'm sorry. I know you're trying to…to help and you want to talk…but…"

He shakes his head.

"It's okay," she nods, with businesslike composure, hiding her disappointment. "I understand. We're not there yet."

"Right," he agrees, glad to see they still have a level of understanding between them that prevents him from having to spell this out to her.

"But like I said, you know you don't have to do this…go after him. Not on my account."

"Castle, you know me," she says, in a repeat of the statement she made last night.

He wonders if he really does anymore. He certainly believed he did, before she upped and left for a job in D.C. without a word.

"I have to see this through to the bitter end. What he did to you...to us—" she continues, biting her lip.

"I don't know that he did any more damage to us than we already did ourselves," he says, flatly.

"You mean than _I_ did?" corrects Kate, holding up a hand to stop him arguing with her. "It's okay. I take full responsibility for my actions."

"Fine. Just don't put yourself in any more danger than you already have. I'm not sure you're thinking clearly on this one."

"Are you questioning my judgment?" Kate challenges, a stubborn flash of anger ripping through her.

"All I know is that the Kate Beckett I knew would not have put herself in front of Jerry Tyson the way you did without a better plan. I think that maybe you believe you have something to prove or…or atone for, and I'm worried it's clouding your judgment. That's all."

"I can look after myself, Castle," says Kate, jamming her gun into her shoulder holster.

"I know you can. Just…take care," he adds, as she reaches the bedroom door.

"Always," replies Kate, capturing his gaze and holding onto it for a couple of seconds. "Rest up today. I'll call and check on you later," she adds, raising her hand in a small departing wave.

This is progress of sorts, she thinks, as she heads for the front door. But she's not kidding herself, there's still a long way to go.

* * *

Back in the bedroom, Castle walks over to the bed and sinks down onto the mattress as soon as Kate leaves the room, feeling utterly exhausted by that last exchange, the longest he's had with anyone in over a week.

He lifts his legs up onto the bed, and sinks back onto the pillows feeling ancient, intent on a ten-minute nap. As soon as his head hits the pillow, he hears the sound of something papery crackle beneath it, and he raises himself back up to search for the source of the sound. His fingers find an envelope, the flap unsealed, simply tucked inside. When he flips it over, he finds his name written in Kate's handwriting on the smooth expanse of cream.

He sits bolt upright in bed and begins inspecting the outer cover of the envelope for further marks, to the accompanying sound of the front door closing firmly behind the author of the letter. He lifts the paper to his nose and sniffs it, searching for any trace of Kate beyond her handwriting. But the paper simply smells like paper, not Beckett, and he sets it aside on the night stand with an disappointed, exhausted sigh.

* * *

_**Note:** *DMDNB is the abbreviation for the chemical compound 2,3-dimethyl-2,3-dinitrobutane, the chemical marker or taggant used in the United States to identify plastic explosive. It must be added to explosives by law under the 1991 International Civil Aviation Organization's Convention on the Marking of Plastic Explosives for the Purpose of Detection._


	25. Chapter 25 - Peace Offerings And Pinatas

_**Chapter 25: Peace Offerings And Piñatas**_

When Castle appears in the bullpen four and a half hours later, his face clean-shaven, his hair newly cut, a tray of take-out coffees and a large box of pastries in his hand, Kate isn't even that surprised. But her throat still closes up at the sight of him exiting the elevator.

It's such a familiar scene, five years worth of pictures preceding this new one; the bright blue shirt with the pinstripe jacket, the black leather sports coat and dark jeans, the red shirt and purple satin tie, the suits, the casuals, the costumes, and that black cashmere v-neck sweater that made her want to run her tongue all the way down his throat before dipping it into the pale hollow below his Adam's apple…she can remember them all.

Only today, he looks slightly tentative and hesitant beneath the layer of familiarity. But there is still an undeniable _'rightness'_ about his being here.

* * *

She watches him from her temporary desk, her 'Castle sixth sense' allowing her the privilege for a few quiet seconds before he is lost to the masses when hysteria breaks out. It begins with one hoot, and ripples through the bullpen like an aural Mexican wave. They all need this, after days and nights of worry and stress, long hours, cold beds, greasy take-out food, the drudgery of chasing down dead-end leads and taking countless fruitless statements and pointless hours of useless phone calls that led them precisely nowhere. They need this visual symbol of success.

Castle is their conquering hero, a man of extreme endurance, and he is justly greeted as such by the men and women of the Twelfth.

Kate's heart swells with pride just watching him accept their praise, applause and raucous welcome.

* * *

"I brought coffee," he says, when he finally reaches her desk, meeting her eyes and holding onto her gaze, attempting to add, "and donuts," above the din erupting all around them: whistles and shouts, noisy cheering, the food and drink suddenly removed from his hands so that more people can slap his back, hug him, shake his hand like the superman they see him to be.

"It's good to be back," he nods at the assembled crowd, smiling stiffly, and she alone can see the physical and emotional effort it's costing him to come back here so soon to thank them all.

The pain of the last days, of his ordeal, is still there in his eyes: a haunting. But there is more of him to see than before; undeniably there is more that is Castle.

Eventually, detectives and record keepers, secretaries and beat cops, drift back to their desks, leaving just their own close-knit little group gathered around him.

"Looking good, bro," says Esposito, giving Castle a one-armed hug. "Pants look a little loose though," he jokes, tugging on Castle's belt, which is drawn to the tightest notch Kate notes.

"Thanks, Espo," he says, slapping his friend's back. "The Jerry Tyson diet. Highly recommend it," he joshes, and Kate shakes her head in disbelief at his ability to joke about everything so soon after the event. It worries her a little too: how much he might be hiding or suppressing.

"You're sick, man," laughs Esposito, fist bumping him.

"Where's Ryan?" asks Castle, looking around for their compadre.

"Papa bear has a sonogram appointment with Jenny," Esposito informs him, grinning like a loon. "But he's gonna be so glad you're back, man. Place hasn't been the same without you, Castle."

Rachel nods at Castle from her desk; their earlier conversation at the loft all the exchange they need between them right now; their quiet understanding.

"Rick," she says, flashing him a quick salute of respect.

"Rach!" he replies, leaning over to high-five her. "You missed me too, right?" he jokes.

"Like a case of chicken pox," she throws back at him, giving him a wink.

"Ouch! That hurt," he rebuts, clutching his chest, feeling normality swirling around him like a magic blanket, doing him good.

_Fake it 'til you make it_, he tells himself, over and over again.

* * *

Finally, when all the brouhaha dies down, he turns back to Kate.

"You shaved," she says, quietly, when he comes over to hand her her own cup of coffee.

Her words unconsciously mirror his own words to her when they met for the first time in three months at her old apartment in front of Tyson - _'You cut your hair'_ - but she fails to notice, since all she's drinking in is the faintest essence of him that seems to have returned over the last several hours since she last saw him. Her fingers itch to touch his newly smooth, pale jaw. She presses her lips together in anticipation, imagining the sharp tang of his cologne, counterpointed against the softness of his naked skin.

"I read your letter," he replies, patting the breast pocket of his jacket to indicate that he has it with him, his eyes flicking back and forth over her features, as his fingers briefly caress hers during the coffee cup handover.

Kate shivers.

"Later?" she suggests, letting his words settle between them.

"Later," he nods in agreement, grateful for her understanding.

She's not pushing him, and he sees that, though for her to be the one to _want_ to push is a new dynamic for them: a role reversal. This unbalancing of their careful, uneasy relationship construct takes some getting used to. She is usually the one who unconsciously holds the power. Castle is just learning that control can be gained by saying less instead of more, but his silence sits heavily on him, like a form of guilt. He's not used to withholding from her, but he is staying firm for now until he can decide what he wants for his own future first. The letter made her desires clear. His remain shrouded in pain.

"I think maybe you need to see this too," she tells him, offering up the note Tyson left addressed to her, since she knows its contents were bugging him this morning at the loft and she wants no more secrets between them.

"Break room?" suggests Castle, taking the Xerox'd copy from her outstretched hand, showing her that she is more important that any poison pen letter by holding off from reading it immediately.

"Uh, yeah. Good idea," she says, surprised at his willingness to be alone with her after his reluctance at home.

They stand, walk towards the empty break room together, making it inside this semi-private sanctuary without interruption for once. Rachel and Esposito watch them go.

* * *

"I'm not staying long," he says, watching her face closely for her reaction to his words. "I just wanted to let you know that I read the letter and…I heard you, Kate," he adds, after a long pause.

"I meant every word," begins Kate, taking a breath to say more, but he interrupts her.

"I…I don't doubt that you did. _Here_ is not the place to talk about any of that…"

"Of course," echoes Kate, trying to keep things in perspective; that this is progress even if it seems so small.

"I made an appointment to see Carter Burke," he tells her, more brightly. "I don't know what you said to him, but it seems he had a sudden cancellation this evening at five," he adds, watching her face for signs of the string-pulling he knows she must have engaged in to get him squeezed in this quickly.

"Glad he could fit you in so soon," Kate replies, evenly.

"You're not going to tell me what you had to do to get me in that fast, are you?" he chuckles.

"I never reveal my sources, Castle. You know that," she jokes back, thinking that this feels close to old times, but knowing in truth that they are still far from that.

"Anyway, I wanted to thank you. _And_ the guys, obviously, for all you've done so far."

"No thanks needed. You would have done the same for…"

Kate trails off, suddenly realizing that that is not a given between them anymore. She took his promise of _'always'_ and she tore it to shreds and threw it back in his face. Even her own old adage _'that's what partners do'_ doesn't quite ring true for them anymore.

"Well, anyway, as I said. No thanks needed," she adds, stiffly.

"Can I take this away with me?" he asks, holding up the Xerox of Tyson's note. "It's a copy, right?"

"Uh…yeah. Yes, it's a copy, so I guess. Yes, if you want to take it with you. I could see you wanted to read it earlier...at home. That's why I'm giving it to you. I don't want any more secrets between us, Castle. But let me just say one thing. I've read it, and as Jordan warned, you might not want that poison in your head right now. Maybe even save it until you're with Dr. Burke and read it with him."

"The note was for you," he states plainly, as if this will inure him to what's written inside.

"Yes, but that doesn't mean the contents won't affect _you_. We both know how Tyson works. This is psychological warfare to him. Just think about it before you rush headlong into reading it. That's all I'm saying."

"Thanks for the warning. But you know me, damn thing'll burn a hole in my pocket until I sit down and take a look at it," he tells her, smiling mildly, tucking the folded letter into the inside pocket of his jacket.

"You about ready to go? I could walk you out," she offers, a hopeful lift to her chin.

"How's the investigation going?" he asks, walking with her to the door, but not quite ready to leave. "I have to sit down with Agent Hernandez to give a statement first thing tomorrow. My version of events," he sighs, tiredness resurfacing to line his face.

"Necessary evil, I'm afraid," nods Kate. "He's a kidnapping specialist. Nice guy from what I can tell. You might want to make some notes if you haven't already—"

"Started?" he nods, giving her a weak smile. "Yeah, I have."

"Of course you have," she smiles back. "Shouldn't have expected anything less."

"Hammered the first three thousand words out on my laptop this morning. That's kind of why I'm here – needed a break from it."

"Is it helping? Being back?"

She knows he's been putting on a damn fine show until now.

"You have no idea what it means to be free until you're…_not_. So just being around people, normal life, buying coffee and donuts even if I had a cop tailing my every move… It felt good. Yeah. It's helping," he nods.

"I'm glad. You've been through such a lot. Don't underestimate it for a second. Finding your way back won't be easy, Castle. Be careful not to try running before you can walk."

"Says the woman who's in here working barely twelve hours after she was rescued," he points out dryly, giving her a look.

"This is my way of coping. You know that. Not to mention it's my job. But this is also my way of saying…" she pauses, gears herself up to tell him some of the things she needs to say with an intake of breath. "Rick, you are _so_—"

"_Kate,_ no," warns Castle, shaking his head at her.

"I know I promised…_after_ we get him. But, Castle, I _need_ you to understand—" she says earnestly.

"I read your letter, Kate. Isn't that enough for now?"

"Is it enough for you?" she asks, looking up at him, her hazel eyes swirling with the need she has to make him see so many difficult truths.

"I think it is. In fact, it has to be. You walked away, Kate, and you didn't look back. Jerry Tyson accomplished what _I_ couldn't. That fact alone is a special kind of torture to me."

"Believe me, I know, and I'm s—"

"You're sorry, I know," interrupts Castle, calmly.

Kate's hopeful expression fails her, and she gnaws on her lip, her nails digging half-moons into the flesh of her palms.

"I know this isn't what you want to hear from me, Kate. But it's all I've got right now. Let me sit with this for a while, your letter. Give me time to think, to figure out how I feel."

"Of course," she replies, keen to do anything he asks of her if it will help in any small way.

"I can't make any promises about how long that's likely to take," he warns.

"Castle, I, of all people, have no right to ask you to. We both know that."

"Good. So long as we're clear."

* * *

There's an awkward moment of silence while they simply regard one another, both so altered here in these familiar surroundings, before Kate speaks again.

"It's good to see you looking…_better_," she tells him, letting her eyes dance over his face again before he leaves, memorizing him.

"You didn't like the rugged, backwoodsman look?" he grins again, touching his own smooth jaw.

"Sorry," she grins back, shyly, looking down at her feet for a second.

"Beckett, you wound me," he teases back, eyes shining.

"I prefer the ruggedly handsome look," she risks telling him, a flash of heat warming her face and neck.

Castle chuckles and nods, the joke ultimately on him.

"To be serious for a second. I really hated that beard," she confesses. "It reminded me too much of what he did to you," she admits, her expression growing pained. "We don't need reminders."

"True," nods Castle, sagely. "Still, we're both in the same city and we're talking again, if you're looking for a silver lining," he offers, with a shrug.

Kate lets out a small startled laugh, tears suddenly springing to her eyes, and then a sob catches in her throat, everything - memories, disappointments and emotions - overwhelming her.

"What?" asks Castle, hurriedly pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket and handing it to her before anyone sees her. "What did I say?"

"I don't know how you do it?" sniffs Kate, her fingers shaking as she dabs at her eyes. "Joke about everything. This soon. You amaze me sometimes."

"Just sometimes?" he asks, and if she wasn't so consumed by disappointment right now, she'd swear Castle was flirting with her a little.

She finds her cheeks warming up again and she's at a loss for how to reply.

"Anyway," says Castle, ending the moment for her by clearing his throat. "I should probably go," he tells her, scuffing his toe on the dirty floor tile. "Bob said he'd wait for me down by the front desk. But I think he suspects I plan on giving him the slip by escaping out the back way."

"Bob?" smiles Kate, handing him back his handkerchief.

"Officer Robert Torres to you. Nice guy. Doesn't like donuts though," he frowns, squinting his eyes comically.

"Oh, never trust a cop who doesn't like donuts," smiles Kate, shaking her head, her eyes still watery.

"My thoughts exactly, Detec— Actually, what _is_ your title now?"

Kate sucks in a breath, just about to begin the long explanation about her job in D.C. and the way that she left, when…

* * *

"_Mr. Castle!"_

The deep, singsong voice of Captain Gates catches them, freezing them both to the spot inside the break room doorway.

"Sir?" says Castle, turning stiffly to address Victoria Gates.

She looks at him for a moment, eyes narrowed, taking in the jeans that hang looser around his waist, the open-neck shirt that fails to conceal the dark bruise at the base of his throat, the dark circles beneath his eyes, the black jacket whose shoulder pads seem to collapse inwards slightly at the top of his arms, the overall effect swamping him slightly; like a boy wearing his older brother's clothes.

"It's good to see you again," she nods, crossing her arms over her chest. "Welcome back."

And Kate thinks that maybe they will be lucky for once, that she will stop right there and leave them in peace. But they have no such luck today.

"I'd like a word, please? My office. You too Beckett," she adds, turning on her heel and expecting them both to follow.

"Ladies first," mutters Castle, and Kate catches just the barest glimpse of the humor she knows so well flashing in her partner's eyes again.

"Too kind," she mutters back, walking ahead of him into the lioness' den.

"Please, take a seat," says Gates, indicating the two chairs in front of her desk.

She jumps right in without further preamble.

"I already spoke to your partner this morning and I will say the same thing to you now. No way are you working this case, Mr. Castle. You are the _victim_ here, whether you like it or not. Now, Kate is in a slightly different position, and so I've agreed that—"

"Sorry. Can I just stop you for a second?" interrupts Castle, holding up his hand, earning himself a stiffly arched eyebrow from Gates in the process. "I'm not staying. I'm merely passing through, Sir. No need to worry."

"Well, good," replies Gates, clearly put on the back foot by this piece of information, geared up as she was to have another fight on her hands. "I'm glad we finally agree on something."

"I had the locks changed at home this morning and I wanted to drop a set of keys off for Kate and thank the guys for everything they've done for me and my family recently. You too, obviously. I really appreciate it."

"Keys? Right," nods Gates, her smile tight. "And you're _very _welcome."

"So, I will be out of your hair. Let you get back to it," he tells her, standing abruptly, leaving her luffing in the doldrums, the wind having been knocked completely out of her sails.

Gates isn't used to Castle being this cooperative or this disinterested in the details of a case for that matter, and it makes her uneasy and somewhat suspicious.

"I'll walk you out," offers Kate, hurrying to leave the Captain's office before she asks them anything further.

* * *

Rachel calls her over, as they are about to pass close to her old desk.

"Didn't Jessie Calman say she had a sister?"

"Uh…yeah. She said that…that her sister came to stay with her and that's why Tyson moved out."

"Are you thinking…?" asks Rachel, watching Kate's eyes light up.

"Jessie needs a place to go. A safe place…" replies Kate, beginning to nod.

"Somewhere away from Tyson," chips in Castle.

"Or maybe even _with_ Tyson," points out Kate, unconsciously gripping Castle's forearm as they turn to face one another.

"And he needs money, maybe he changes his appearance again…" Castle suggests.

"Because he knows the police are out looking for him," fires back Kate.

"So he needs to drop out of sight for a while…somewhere no one would think to look for him," replies Castle.

"Somewhere his employer, the bank, the IRS wouldn't know about, somewhere unconnected to him entirely…" parries Kate. "The sister's place could be perfect," she says, nodding.

"But if Tyson is cleaning up, both women could be in danger," Castle points out.

"We need to get her name and address," replies Kate, nodding in time with Castle.

"Hospital might have her listed as next of kin if she's unmarried," Castle suggests.

"Good call," agrees Kate, letting go of his arm as they both run out of steam and stare down at where her hand has just been lying on top of his sleeve.

"_See!_" laughs Esposito, pointing at Rachel. "Told you it was freaky!"

Kate and Castle look at one another without embarrassment, a frisson from their past passing through both of them at the thrill they still get from working together, at how good at it they can still be.

"You sure you don't want to stick around and help?" asks Rachel, giving him a cheeky grin.

"And work with both of you?" asks Castle, still masking his exhaustion well. "I think I'll pass on that particular piñata," he laughs.

"You're soft, Rick Castle!" Rachel yells after him, as he gives her a departing wave and heads for the elevators with Kate by his side.

* * *

"That felt…"

"Odd?" asks Castle, smiling down at Kate.

"I was going to say familiar," she tells him, her smile fainter and more tightlipped than his.

"How about we settle on _oddly familiar_ then?" he adds, kindly.

"The art of compromise?" asks Kate. "I can live with that."

"Oh, here. Before I forget. Your keys," he says, fishing in his pocket before handing her a shiny new set.

Kate looks surprised.

"You weren't planning on staying?" asks Castle, his expression and voice both pointing towards his disappointment if that turns out to be the case.

"What?" asks Kate, half-listening, turning the keyfob over in her hand, admiring the shiny newness of the keys.

"Lanie?" he asks, clearly assuming she has decided to move out.

"Lanie? What? Oh, no. Nothing like that. I just…I thought you were throwing Gates a line about your reason for visiting. I thought the keys were just a… Never mind," she adds, stopping short from using the word 'excuse'.

"They were part of the reason for my visit," Castle tells her, sensing her disappointment. "But I also wanted to see you," he tells her truthfully.

"Thank you," she nods, lifting her hand. "For these too. I won't let them out of my sight."

"See you later then?"

"I'll call. I'm not sure when I'll be back. Good luck with Burke. I hope he can help you. You're putting on a great show, Castle," she tells him, her own honesty matching his. "But you know…you know you don't have to do that for my sake," she promises him.

"You always were too smart for your own good."

"And too blind at times too," she adds, ruefully. "Take care. I'll call you as soon as we get anything."

* * *

She presses the lift call button and the doors open immediately. Castle steps inside and turns around to face her, his hands hanging down by his sides.

"I would, you know," he says, as he waits for the doors to close.

"You would?" asks Kate, frowning and shaking her head in puzzlement, not understanding what he means.

"I would have done the same for you, just for the record," he nods, as the doors slide closed, leaving Kate standing, staring, and wishing more than anything that she could travel back in time to unravel the painful, complicated mess she's made for both of them.

* * *

_A/N: I will let you read both letters in time, don't worry. Kate's was written on her plane ride up from D.C. in chapter 2, for those of you who forgot. She wrote the letter in response to the one Castle sent her, the one she never opened until she read it on the flight._

_And before people accuse Castle of being too glib and light-hearted in this chapter, I'd ask you just to hang on and see the whole thing through. _


	26. Chapter 26 - Talk It Out

_**Chapter 26: Talk It Out**_

Castle makes it to Dr. Burke's office with twenty minutes to spare. He wants to take a walk around the block to work off some of the nervous energy that's been building ever since he left the familiar surroundings of the precinct, but is advised against it by Officer Torres, since being out in the open makes him some kind of sitting duck apparently.

He used to love this city, would walk anywhere. Now he's seeing shadows on corners he never noticed before, and he's wondering how he's going to let Alexis out of his sight ever again. This is worse than after Paris – no giant explosion to take out the bad guy and wipe the threat off the face of the earth this time. Just a wary, worrying watch and wait for the other shoe to drop or for nothingness that will play at the frayed edges of his psyche in the torturous way Tyson intended when he planned this script out in advance.

So the two men sit in the quiet, beige foyer of Kate's therapist's office, drinking coffee from one of those neat little high-tech pod machines that remind Castle of small, eager, Japanese robot dogs, and seem to have some tenuous link to the salt-and-pepper gorgeousness that is George Clooney if he remembers right.

* * *

"Hey, Bob," he says eventually, bored with the latest issue of _Golf Digest_, his bunker play infinitely improved if he ever found himself in the unfortunate position of having to chip out of one. "Ever been in therapy?"

"No, Sir," replies Bob Torres, formally, as if responding to a question from his Sergeant, the only things lacking - the click of his heels and the snap to salute.

"Right," nods Castle, flicking back through the magazine's glossy pages when he realizes nothing further is forthcoming.

His eyes are drawn to a so-called 'Hot List' indicated in the golf magazine's contents. He flips to the appropriate page, but instead of pictures of pretty female golfers wearing short skirts and ankle socks, he discovers pages and pages of golf equipment – drivers, irons, hybrids, putters, even balls get their own hot list these days. He sighs, disappointed, discouraged, and reverts back to interrogating Bob.

"So, how'd you deal with stuff…like from the job?" he asks, his right knee jumping uncontrollably, wondering why this man's opinion of him even matters.

"Go to the gym, Sir. I like to spar," he replies, lifting his fists in a defensive boxing pose momentarily, before returning to his passive, upright stance.

"Call me Rick, by the way. Or…or Castle. All my cop friends call me Castle," he tells the guy, wishing he'd been assigned a slightly chattier companion.

Bob doesn't reply one way or the other.

Castle returns to his magazine, running his eye over an advertorial for a GPS golf ball finder app that's listed for sale on iTunes. _'Never lose another ball!'_ screams the advert. Castle thinks that rooting around in the rough with a club in his hand, though he doesn't even play golf, would not be the worst place in the world to be right now. He'd take that golf club to a thicket of grass, maybe in amongst some trees, raise it high over his head and then smash it sensele—

"Mr. Castle? Dr. Burke will see you now," smiles Angela, Burke's calm and efficient assistant.

"Huh?" mumbles Castle, his head shooting up from the floor at the sound of his own name, vivid images from his murderous rage in the woods quickly dissipating to the far edges of his field of vision.

"Carter Burke, Mr. Castle. It's a pleasure," says Kate's former therapist, stepping closer and holding his hand out for Castle to shake.

Castle stands on shaky legs, his heart racing a little, but he manages the social nicety of shaking the man's hand, even believes he covered his descent into violent visualization pretty smoothly as he follows the African American therapist into his office.

* * *

Carter Burke is tall, graceful even, loose-limbed, with an over-arching vibe of easy confidence. Castle is left feeling panicked, inelegant and lumpen beside him, despite his recent weight loss and intellectual prowess.

"Please, take a seat," says the therapist, indicating two chairs placed opposite the one he himself heads towards.

The room is spacious, the walls a comforting, cocooning dark brown, the light muted by vertical blinds that filter the daylight outside casting a warm, gilded glow out across half the room before it drops off into shadow close to the door they just entered by.

Castle hovers for a second, baffled momentarily by the choice of chairs. They are identical, dark leather armchairs, sit side-by-side, both are facing the same direction, both give more or less the same approximate view of Dr. Burke.

"Either one is fine," interjects Burke's rich, deep voice. "There are no wrong answers here."

His tone is kind, though maybe slightly amused, and this last note worries Castle, since he already feels like he is being judged. This man is _Kate's therapist_. And it's only now that he's here in the man's office that he realizes what a step this must have been for her: opening such a private part of herself up to him. She never discussed her time in therapy beyond the fact of it having taken place. He makes a mental note to thank her more fully for having extended this help to him.

Finally, he selects a chair, sits down heavily and then squirms for several seconds to get comfortable before he looks up to find Carter Burke watching him quietly.

His face is pleasant, kind even, strong and passive, he has intelligent eyes and a slightly ambiguous smile.

"Can you tell me what were you thinking when you looked at those two chairs just now?" he asks Castle, throwing him slightly with this opening question.

"Thinking?"

"Yes. You seemed to be engaging in some kind of…_struggle_ over which chair to choose."

"I wouldn't exactly call it a struggle," denies Castle, all the while knowing that the man has him bang to rights.

It took him ten minutes at home that morning to choose a pair of shoes to wear, and five minutes in Dunkin Donuts that afternoon to pick out a selection of sweet treats for the squad. Bob said nothing, but Castle could feel him thinking, "They're cops. A donut's a donut, buddy. Move it along."

"What _would_ you call it?" asks Burke, pursuing his point.

Castle shrugs.

"Often when we have had our ability or our _freedom_ to choose taken away from us, we find it difficult to regain our own sense of self-determination. Our self-confidence."

"Is that so?" says Castle, feeling distinctly uncomfortable already.

He had no idea this guy would begin analyzing him from _hello_. It's naïve, he knows, to think that's not how this would work. His hair, his shoes, the trim and buff of his fingernails, all of these things tell stories about who he is, or who he want's the world to think he is. He creates characters for a living, he believes himself to be good at it, his attention to detail beyond reproach. So, being confronted by a man who can see past these false constructs rocks him a little, since he's been living behind a public persona of sorts for years, and Kate Beckett is the only person who's really been given a chance to look behind the curtain, so to speak.

* * *

"Kate explained a little about your recent trauma when we spoke on the phone this morning," says Burke, cutting to the chase. "But she kept her outline reasonably brief. How about you begin by telling me in your own words why you're here?" he suggests, as a place to start.

Castle leans forward in the leather armchair, opening his legs as he does so to look down at the carpet. He briefly wonders which chair Kate would have chosen. If she sat where he's sitting now? Or maybe she paced the floor, since her energy is always less containable than his. He sniffs the air, searching for traces of her, though it's more than a year since she stopped coming here looking for answers to her own personal riddles. They're in a mess right now and that makes him wonder if this, this talking, will even help him at all.

"We can sit in silence too, if you like," says Burke, startling him, making him wonder how long he's been hiding out inside his head.

"I'm sorry," replies Castle.

"Please. Don't apologize. As I said, there are no wrong answers here, Mr. Castle."

"Please, doctor, call me Rick. I already have Bob out there calling me Mr. Castle. I…it makes me feel old," he admits, with a forced grin that quickly becomes a pained grimace.

"Okay, Rick. So, how about you start at the beginning."

"Bob doesn't do talking," interjects Castle, ignoring Burke's suggestion, his mind intent on taking him down a different path. "I'm usually a talker. If Kate were here she's tell you that in the beginning she couldn't get me to shut up. Drove her crazy. These last few hours, I have no words. Have to force them out."

"That is not unusual. Your brain is busy processing a profound trauma."

"Bob doesn't do therapy either," Castle adds, getting slightly more agitated, and it's as if Burke hasn't spoke at all. "No. Do you know what Bob does, Dr. Burke?"

Castle plows on without waiting for an answer, and Dr. Burke doesn't offer one, he just watches quietly.

"Bob does _boxing_. That's what _he_ does. Because that's what _real_ men do. They…they fight it out. They _protect_ their own. They…they don't _talk_ it out," he spits, coming close to yelling. "No. No, they don't use their _words,_ they use their _fists_. Yeah, that's what real men do," says Castle, his focus slowly coming back to the room, to the man opposite him, and to his own fists, clenched so tightly on top of the arms of the chair that his nails are almost cutting into the skin of his palms.

"Do you wish you'd used your fists, Rick?"

Castle looks dazed when he drags his eyes away from the filmy slats covering the window and obscuring the view from outside. Dr. Burke calmly repeats the question.

"_Wish?_ I…I _wish_ that none of this had ever happened. I wish…I wish that her mother had never died, that she had never _become_ a cop. I wish this job wasn't the only thing she cared about. I wish I was enough for her," he blurts, finally coming to a panting, exhausted finale.

Burke nods, scribbles a few notes, and then looks back up.

* * *

"You have given us a lot to work on right there, a lot to go on. Which is good. But we shouldn't attempt to tackle the whole thing at once. I'm hearing a lot of pain tied up in your relationship with Kate. Would that be fair?"

"Forgive me. You have me at a disadvantage here, doctor. I'm sure you know a lot more about the mysteries of my life, my relationship with Kate, than even I do."

"I only know what Kate chose to share with me. And I would never betray a patient confidence. That applies as much for you as it does for her."

"Then how will this work? _Can_ this even work? You seeing me when you already saw her?"

"I work with couples regularly," he reassures Castle. "They either come to see me together, or I set out seeing just one of them and then we introduce the other at a later date if we agree that it would be a helpful course of action. We can work the same way in this case. Kate has already stated her willingness to attend future sessions if you and I agree that it would be useful to your treatment."

Castle is surprised to hear this. Kate, normally so closed off, willing to talk openly to him in front of another human being seems out of character. He wonders if her offer springs from some kind of guilt, or if it's as her letter says: that she will do anything to make things right between them.

"You seem surprised by that," notes Burke, and he wonders for a second if the man can read minds too.

"You know Kate Beckett," shrugs Castle. "Openness, a willingness to talk, they're not exactly her key characteristics."

"Perhaps. Do you believe people can change, Rick?" asks Burke, this twisty narrative almost more than his exhausted brain can keep up with today.

"Change? Yeah, I guess. If they want it badly enough."

"We all certainly have a capacity for change," Burke tells him. "A day, a week, short term alterations are easy. Real, permanent change can only be sustained for longer if we want it enough, as you say. But all change involves _loss_ of some kind."

"Loss? I…I don't understand," frowns Castle.

"In order to change we have to give something up. We have to give up our past - those cigarettes that are killing us, that bottle of Scotch, an old lover, a job, preconceptions about people. Even _positive_ change involves loss. We move house - we give up the old one. We get married - we give up our family to some extent. Change takes courage, Rick."

"I can see that," Castle concedes, nodding, but still wondering what this has to do with him.

"One thing we can't change is what has happened in the past. We can make best efforts not to repeat our mistakes. But we cannot change the fact of their having happened. If we try to deny them we are simply lying to ourselves. We must accept our past in order to change our future."

"Makes sense."

"So, bringing things back to the present. The anger you briefly expressed in relation to your failure, as you see it, to protect Kate in some way from recent events…"

"Anger. Yes," confirms Castle, this his overriding emotion since Tyson snatched him, for all sorts of complicated reasons.

"You can begin to heal by accepting that what's done is done. Kate does not blame you. If anything she blames herself. That being the case, do you see how it would be helpful for you to…to attempt to accept that you were forced into a position of powerlessness, a place where even lashing out with your fists was not a viable option?"

"Honestly?"

"Please. If you can."

"I can see that what you're saying might be true, or helpful even. But I have absolutely no idea how to begin doing that."

"Try explaining why you feel that way. As if forgiving yourself is somehow impossible or maybe even undesirable? Why do you want to hold onto that emotion?"

"Did she tell you what he did to her? Did she doctor?"

"Kate merely stated that he assaulted her while you were restrained in another room and forced to listen," he tells Castle, reading from a set of notes he has in the open folder on his lap.

"Assaulted!" huffs Castle, sarcastically. "That's the word she used?"

"It is," replies Burke, calmly. "Do you have another word? A better word?"

"_Rape_," says Castle, watching the barest flicker of concern pass over the man's eyes, concern for Kate. "That…that _bastard_…" he pauses, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, breathing heavily through his nose. "That bastard made her strip in front of him, before he cuffed and…and trussed her to her own bed. He…he cut her with a knife, made her _beg,_ humiliated her, and then proceeded to carry out a mock-rape, all to punish me."

"Mock-rape? How do you…?"

"Define it? It's a weapon of freaking war is what it is! A…a deliberate military strategy, Amnesty International calls it," spits Castle, his recent foray into Google feeding his obsession over this point. "Used to shame and terrorize women in the on-going conflicts in Colombia, Iraq, Sudan, Chechnya, Nepal and Afghanistan. Not Manhattan! How do you even begin…?" he sighs, dropping his head into his hands. "How do you even begin to deal with the guilt of not being able to stop that from happening? Hmm?" he grits out, his voice muffled by the palms of his hands.

"Where were you when this…this act was taking place?"

"In the next room."

"And you were incapacitated in some way?"

"I was tied to a chair, I had a crossbow aimed at my head…Oh, and just for good measure, he injected me with some drug that left me paralyzed, but more than capable of hearing everything that was going on, _everything_, when I wasn't fighting to breathe."

"You're very angry, I can see."

"_Angry?_ Angry doesn't even begin to cover it. If that guy walked in here right now, I swear to God I would kill him with my bare hands. To hell with the consequences."

Burke lets Castle's remarks settle in the air between them for a second without comment, judgment or reproach.

* * *

"You've been through quite an ordeal, Rick. Kate mentioned that you were snatched days prior to the events you just referred to."

"Yes."

"Can you tell me a little more about what happened?"

"He…he'd been watching us for some time apparently. Bugged my home, knew…_so much_ about us, about our life together. He knew Kate had left. I was working a case with her replacement at the Twelfth, one night he followed me, drugged me on the street…"

"And this is someone previously known to you both?"

"Yes. A serial killer we've come up against a couple of times in the past. I shot him a few months back, multiple times. Kate thought I had killed him. But…"

Castle pauses, remembering the dark, wet night on the bridge, how good it felt pumping bullets into Tyson's body, remembers his doubts beginning to grow as the dawn rose and no body was found.

"But?" prompts Burke.

"I just knew he was still out there…waiting."

"So you were right, and he came back?"

"Yes."

"I know that looking for small chinks of light in very dark situations can sometimes seem…glib or pointless. But you can congratulate yourself on your intuition in this case."

"You think?"

"Kate is a professional and she missed the signs. You didn't. _Use_ that information. Trust your instincts because they are _good_. You will need to rely on them as you recover. We can talk more about the different ways trauma can affect people in our next session. For now, tell me more about the point when you were taken if you can. What happened next?"

"He drugged me, as I said, bundled me into the trunk of my own car. I woke up several hours later chained to a cast iron radiator in the bathroom of Kate's old apartment. He had soundproofed the door, fitted a hasp and padlock on the outside. Bastard thought of everything."

"And Kate knew none of this?"

"Kate took a job in D.C. three month ago. She joined a Federal task force attached to the Attorney General's office. We hadn't spoken since she left," he tells Burke, matter-of-factly.

"You hadn't spoken in three months? And before that?"

"Before that we were more of less living together at my apartment. I thought we were planning a future. Turns out _she_ was planning a future. One that didn't include me. She got the job offer, kept it a secret, even went out of town for an interview and lied about it. I only found out when a boarding pass stub fell out of her jacket one night we were home cooking at her place."

Castle stares at the floor again, reliving that scene, wondering how he might handle it differently if he had his time over. Then he remembers Burke's advice about accepting the past and he swallows deeply.

* * *

"How are you supposed to deal with that? he asks Burke, plaintively. "When someone you love, when someone who _claims_ to love you back, says 'this isn't about you, this is about _my_ life'. Hmm? What do your psychological textbooks and…and your case studies tell you about that?" asks Castle, getting steamed up again.

"We can talk about self-determination and how to work within the confines of a relationship so that you both get what you want out of it, if you wish. If you see that as the most pressing issue here, Rick. But I would suggest that since we are working within the limits of a fifty-minute session today, we focus on the damage done by this more recent trauma, and return to your relationship at a later date. Does that make sense?"

"That problem isn't going away," says Castle.

"Kate is back in town right now, am I right?" asks Burke, though he clearly knows the answer to this question already.

"Yes," sighs Castle, his patience becoming exhausted.

"And where is she staying? Not at her apartment, surely."

"She's staying with me, at my loft with my mother and daughter."

"Good. So you have family around you, and Kate is at the heart of that. Are you sharing a bed?"

"I…I don't see what…"

"Physical intimacy can offer us a way to heal, to get close to someone. But it can equally become a way to hide the cracks in a relationship, a way to mask the pain of a union that is failing. It can become a means to communicate that lets us avoid having to talk about or face up to our problems."

"We're not sleeping together, if that's what you're asking. We haven't slept together in three and a half months."

"And yet she is happy to live under the same roof as you. That must tell you something."

"Yes, it tells me that my interfering mother insisted she stay while I was incarcerated in her apartment."

"Would you rather Kate stayed somewhere else?"

"_No!_" whines Castle, shaking his head, finding this harder than he expected, frustration and anger just seething through him the more issues they uncover.

"So what is the problem?" asks Dr. Burke, calmly.

"The problem is she _left,_ she cut off contact, and when I get out, I find that everyone around me, everyone who's supposed to be on _my_ _side_, has forgiven her."

"Are you sure about that? Have you talked to them? What makes you think that there are sides?"

"My mother invited her to stay in my home."

"You yourself said you wanted her there. Perhaps your mother was trying to help you. Have you thought about that?"

"Then why do I feel so betrayed?"

"Perhaps because you are experiencing an acute loss of control over your own life right at this moment. This man, whose name you have yet to use, _stole_ your liberty from you, Rick. And then you come back to find Kate sleeping…"

"In my bed!"

"In your bed, and your mother and…how does your daughter feel about Kate being back in your lives after all this time?"

"According to my mother, she took a while to thaw, gave Kate a really hard time at first. By the time I saw them together in hospital… Look, I don't want them at each other's throats, don't misunderstand me, doctor."

"Can you tell me what you do want?"

"Not to feel so weak, so…_irrelevant_. Life went on without me. They survived. All of them. Even Kate, down in D.C. I secretly hoped she'd fail, you know. How terrible is that. Some loving husband I'd have made."

Burke pauses, his pen hovered over his notes, and then he sets it down and clasps his hands in his lap.

* * *

"You used the term husband just now. What does that label mean to you?"

"Did I forget to mention that I proposed before she fled to D.C? Yeah, that might explain it all in a nutshell. Who'd want this, right?" says Castle, indicating himself. "The man who gets himself snatched off the street and then has to wait for his girlfriend to come rescue him."

"Rick, can you hear how you're blaming yourself again?" prompts Burke. "Kate is a law enforcement officer. She was doing her job."

"Because I _do!_ I blame myself for this entire mess. You know Kate, right? I mean she must have talked a little bit about our relationship, such as it was at the time she was seeing you. And don't worry, I'm not fishing for details or confidential information here. All I'm saying is, you know how tentative and closed off she can be in her personal life."

"We're skirting a fine line here, but okay. I will concede that point."

"So, before the job even becomes and issue, she asks me flat out one night, 'Castle, where are we going?', and I know exactly what she means by the question. Because we've been drifting along nicely for months. We negotiated a disastrous dinner with both our parents, got through our first Christmas together, she forgave me a stupid gaff on Valentine's Day… You hear what I'm saying? Basically things were going great. And then she asks me _that_ question and you know what I did?"

Castle is hyper by now. He's on a roll, he's aware of his rapid speech, his heart racing, and still Carter Burke sits opposite him, listening calmly without interruption.

"And bear in mind, _I'm_ the guy who chased after _her_ for years, _I'm_ the guy who pushed his way into her life even when she didn't want me there. So, what do I do? I deflect. I don't answer her question. I deflect. I fall back on some stupid joke. So what is she supposed to think, hmm? That I'm _serious_ about her? That I think we have a future? No wonder she took the damn job."

"Rick, Kate is there for you now. The past is the past, as I said. She's back living under _your_ roof. She was there for you when you needed her."

"Yes," he agrees, before hitting the nail of the head. "And what if that's the only reason she came back?"

Castle sits up straight – the core of his insecurity revealed; his fear of getting close to her again.

"Because you were in danger?"

"Yes."

"Is that what's worrying you? That you can't trust her to stick around? Or that you can?"

Castle doesn't answer.

"She's here, she wants to talk, she wants to help. So you see, we have time to work on your relationship, assuming it is something you both wish to repair."

"She says she does."

"And you. How do you feel about it?"

Castle shakes his head and steeples his fingers, staring at his knuckles, imagining them torn open and bloody, Jerry Tyson's flesh smeared over their swollen, gnarly landscape.

"Do you still love her?" Burke asks quietly.

"Do you feel that there might be a way back?" he prompts, when Castle still doesn't answer.

"She wrote me a letter," he says, reaching inside his jacket for the carefully folded piece of paper.

Dr. Burke watches while Castle turns the tri-fold piece of notepaper over in his hands.

"Have you read the letter, Rick?" Burke asks, after a long silence.

Castle clears his throat, emotion-choked by her words, words he has mostly memorized since this morning, words that still swirl round and round inside his brain even without the letter in front of him. That's why he needed to go to the precinct. After reading it, he needed to see her again, to put a fresh image of her face as she looks now – hair shorter, face thinner, eyes infinitely more serious - next to the words she wrote when she was on her way home to find him. He needed to see if she meant those words now that the heat and panic of the moment had dissipated – he was home, more or less safe, so did she still feel the same way? And it appeared from her demeanor, from her deep desire to talk to him and to make things right, that she did.

* * *

"Yes," nods Castle, running his fingertips over the open page. "I read it."

"And did the contents of the letter help you in any way?"

Castle looks down at Kate's handwriting, letting the ebb and flow of her words swim before his eyes before he answers.

"The _fact_ of the letter helped the most," he answers carefully.

"Can you explain what you mean by that?"

"That she felt the need to put her thoughts on paper, to open up to me. She's not a natural sharer. Those things mean more than the words themselves right now."

"Did anything she said in the letter shock or surprise you?"

"I'm staying with the fact of the letter's existence right now, doctor, if you don't mind? I need more time to…to digest the content. I'm just glad that we're talking again. But…"

"But?"

"I have to face the truth."

"And what is the truth as you see it?"

"Kate Beckett scares me. She scares me and I may never get past that."

"What scares you in particular?"

"You probably think I'm crazy, don't you? Being scared of a beautiful woman."

"I never use that term. And no, given what you've been through, how your relationship broke down, I think it would be abnormal if you didn't experience some after effects from that. She broke your trust when she lied to you. A lack of trust will undermine any relationship."

"The thing that scares me most is being vulnerable to her again. Being in a position where she can just walk away and…that's it. _Over._ And I have no say, no voice, no… Yeah, that's my biggest fear about letting her back into my life."

"Rick, the hard part is over in that case. Kate is _already_ back in your life," Burke points out to Castle's evident surprise.

"For how long?"

"Have you asked her?"

"She wants to talk but...I just can't. I told her after they catch…him. But I know that's just me stalling."

"You seem very aware of the mistake you made before, when you refused to talk to her about where your relationship was going. Isn't it possible that you might be repeating the same mistake again by not talking to her now?"

Castle nods.

* * *

"I'm not saying sit down with her tonight and hash everything out. You need time to be at peace right now, alone or with people around you, whatever feels most comfortable. You'll need time to readjust to being home, to having your freedom back and the constant threat of violence removed from your life. How did you sleep last night?"

"Not well and not for long. But we didn't get home until late. I'm hoping tonight will be better."

"Good. Rest is an important part of helping your psyche to heal after a trauma as violent and prolonged as this. Take as much rest as you can. Even if that means napping during the day. Listen to what your body is telling you."

"I will."

"Exercise and proper meals will help too. Eat well and sleep well. Do those two things, and you will help yourself immensely."

"I'll keep my mother out of the kitchen then," jokes Castle, and Dr. Burke offers a small smile in return.

"One other thing you might want to consider is to keep a journal. Some patients find a journal offers them a safe place to deposit any worrying, anxious or unusual thoughts that might pop into your head from time to time. It's also a useful place to record any dreams you remember upon waking. You can bring it along to our sessions and we can discuss it if you think it will help, or you can keep it private. It's entirely up to you. But it's a good place to deposit or…dump any of the toxic information your brain might throw at you in the days and weeks ahead."

"How long before I feel normal?" asks Castle.

Everyone is different, I'm afraid. But you are motivated, very self-aware and you seem mentally strong. Just be careful of those flashes of anger. Take a moment to calm down, to breathe. Don't act on them. Call me if you need to talk."

"Thank you. I appreciate that."

"Okay. Our time is nearly at an end for today. I think that was a good first session. We made some in roads and have plenty to work on and think about. Before we wrap up, is there anything else you'd like to say? Anything you want to ask me?"

Castle feels wiped out. A little lighter possibly. And he feels a strange need to speak to Kate.

"Just…thank you and when can we meet again?"

* * *

Castle leaves Dr. Burke's office with an appointment scheduled for five the next evening; a daily recurring time-slot set aside for him for the foreseeable future.

He asks Officer Torres for a minute when they hit the empty lobby of Dr. Burke's office building so he can make a phone call, and so Bob exits the brass-framed double doors to stand beneath the dark green canopy outside.

Kate picks up on the first ring. She sounds out of breath.

"Hey!" she says, her voice bright and breathy. "How'd it go with Burke?"

"Am I interrupting something?" asks Castle, failing to hide the disappointment in his voice if he is.

"Rachel, you go on. I'll catch up," he hears Kate tell her colleague, the muffle of her fingers as they brush the mic reaching his ear before she speaks to him again. "No. Not interrupting," she assures him. "Let me just step outside."

"Where are you?" asks Castle, when he hears yelling and banging in the background.

"The sister's place in Brooklyn," replies Kate, still a little out of breath. "Just ran up five flights, sorry. That noise you heard was SWAT taking down the door."

"You should go," says Castle, backing out of the reason for his call.

Suddenly thanking her for the referral doesn't seem so urgent.

"Listen, no. Please. Don't go," she urges him, and he hears what sounds like the bang of a metal door swinging all the way open and then the wind catching the speaker on her phone, a whirling whipping sound, until she changes direction, putting her back to it. "You know how raids go. It's over-crowded down there. I'm up on the roof now. There's no one around."

"You sure?" asks Castle, doubtful but grateful.

"How're you doing?" asks Kate, ending that particular argument with her question. "Was it tough? Did it help? I mean you don't have to tell me anything obviously," she rushes to reassure him. "I just…I remember how hard I found it at first. Talking to a stranger about the mess inside my head. But I mean…" she laughs, nervously. "That's me. Probably doesn't surprise you. Maybe you found it…well, I don't know..."

He imagines her shrugging at this point, maybe gnawing her lip.

"Castle, how _are_ you?" she asks again, really wanting to know, desperately trying to stop herself from anxiously rambling on.

"Coming from someone you used to find hard to shut up, I…you're right. It's not as easy as I thought it would be. But we made a start. Seems we have a lot to talk about. I have another session tomorrow and the day after that. I think Burke may need therapy by the time I'm done," laughs Castle, going for light-hearted and self-depreciating, but coming off sounding brittle.

"He has a therapist," Kate tells Castle. "I checked already," she laughs. "Part of continued professional development, apparently. They all have one. Analysts analyzing each other. What a blast that must be."

She falls silent for a moment before she speaks again, and they listen to one another breathing over the open line. It's strikingly intimate, and might be the closest he's felt to Kate since they were reunited.

"I'm proud of you," she says, out of the blue, and Castle suddenly stands taller, thrown off-kilter by her statement, since he thought she was taking the easy, light-hearted way out, avoiding painful issues like they used to by joking and deflecting.

"Thank you. That's actually why I called. I wanted to thank you for…for getting me in there so fast. Truth is, I'm…I am struggling right now, Kate," he tells her, fighting with the voice that keeps telling him to lock these unattractive, weak thoughts away inside his head, aiming for honesty instead.

"I know you are," she says, quietly, sympathetically.

"Not fooling anyone with the coffee and donut routine, was I?" he laughs, cynically.

"Oh, I don't know. You put on an Oscar-worthy performance this afternoon. But we know each other better than that. Being shot was a lot like where you are now, I imagine. You feel so lonely when you're the only one going through something like that. You think no one else can understand. And I was angry at first…_so angry_, Castle," she whispers.

"I wish I could have helped you then."

"I know you do," she says, letting out a sigh of pure regret. "Maybe in time you can let me help you now," she tells him, no pressure behind her words, just a generous offer to share their pain and her insight and understanding of the place he finds himself marooned right now.

"Just…give me a little time, okay?"

"Take all the time you need," she says, clearing her throat.

He feels, rather than hears, her attention being deflected elsewhere, and so he takes it upon himself to wrap the call up, since she's given him too much of her time already.

"Well, I should really go. Bob is loitering with intent outside Dr. Burke's office building. It'd look pretty bad if he became a Stop and Search statistic on my account," he jokes, falling back on his trademark humor. "Better go rescue him."

"Sure. I should probably go too," says Kate, and he can hear her signaling to someone, the phone connection wavering by her ear as she moves.

"Right. Take care," he says, so unused to not being the one at her back as she works in this city.

"Oh, Castle?" she calls, just before he hangs up.

"Yeah?" he asks, hopefully.

"Thank you for calling to tell me how your session went."

"Sure. No problem."

"And thank you for being honest with me."

He thinks about saying '_always'_, the word practically tripping off the end of his tongue, but he catches it right before it falls. It's too soon to be in any way appropriate, to be making those kinds of promises again.

"Just returning the favor," he says instead. "See you tonight?"

"Yeah. Gates cut my hours. My deal to get back on the case. I'll be home by ten. Don't worry if you're asleep. I have my new key," she says, and he can hear her smile when she thinks of the shiny piece of metal in her pocket.

"I'll see you at ten then," he says, before ending the call.


	27. Chapter 27 - Searching For Answers

_**Chapter 27: Searching For Answers**_

"_Clear!_" yells Esposito, after sweeping his gun around the bedroom, kicking open the louvered closet door, every muscle tensed, his footwork steady and swift as he advances through the apartment, adrenalin pumping.

"_Clear!_" calls out Ryan, emerging from the small bathroom, having yanked aside the floral shower curtain and checked behind the door, the miniscule room offering no other hiding places.

Three SWAT operatives, Rachel and a couple of uniforms fill the small living room-come-kitchen almost to capacity, making the neat apartment look untidy.

"Well, there's nowhere else for them to hide," remarks Rachel, dryly.

"You checked under the bed, right, bro?" asks Ryan, when Esposito walks back into the living room, re-holstering his gun.

Esposito rolls his eyes.

"Man, I wasn't kiddin'," says Ryan. "This is Jerry Tyson we're talking about. He—"

"I checked under the bed," assures Esposito. "She's got dust bunnies breeding like rabbits down there. But no serial killers, okay?"

"Fine. Good," says Ryan, looking a little embarrassed by his own outburst, still eyeing his partner doubtfully.

"Guys, there are three plates in the sink over here and three sets of cutlery," calls Rachel, poking around the tiny kitchen area.

"And three bottles of beer in the trash," adds Ryan, peering inside the swing lid of the bin that's standing sentry by the side of the counter.

* * *

Kate walks in to the apartment at this point and takes a quick look around.

"All clear in here?" she asks, nodding at Ryan when he nods back.

"Where'd _you_ go?" asks Esposito.

"Roof," says Kate, tipping her chin up. "There's nothing up there. _So_…find anything?" she asks, keen to move the attention back off herself to cover up for the fact that she chose to take a phone call from Castle instead of participating in the raid.

"Looks like there were three people here recently. Food hasn't dried on the dirty plates in the sink yet, so it's fresh," says Rachel.

"Damn," mutters Kate, still surveying the scene for herself.

"Looks like they're gone."

"Can't believe we missed them already," moans Ryan.

"Sure looks that way," says Rachel, resignedly.

"Okay. Rachel, you check the closet in the bedroom for any missing items. We need to figure out if Sarah Calman packed like she was going on a planned trip, or if she was forced to leave in a hurry. And keep an eye out for any signs of a struggle, guys," says Kate.

She turns away to face the team of uniforms and SWAT personnel filling the living room.

"SWAT can stand down. You're done for the day. The rest of you, gloves on, search the living room methodically. We're looking for paperwork, receipts, even a scribbled note on a scrap of paper that might point to their destination."

* * *

Ryan sidles up alongside Kate as she begins examining the small desk that's positioned up against one wall of the living room. She's busy bagging up a HoJo branded notepad that was sitting alongside the phone, a striped pencil resting on top, when he corners her.

"Everything okay?" he asks, quietly.

"Sure. Why wouldn't it be?" she says, sealing up the plastic baggie, before continuing to open drawers, fingertip searching her way through them, while Ryan hovers at her elbow. "Just need to catch this guy," she mutters, half to herself.

"Things okay between you and Castle?" Ryan persists.

Kate stops what she's doing and stands up straight.

"Fine," she lies, her voice strained by the forced lightness in her tone. "Bag this would you?" she tells him, thrusting a large brown envelope marked 'Jessie' against his chest.

"You sure?" pushes Ryan.

Kate freezes this time.

"About the envelope?" she asks, staring down at the potential evidence in his hands and then back up at his kind, concerned face.

But the Beckett stare isn't working today, apparently.

"You sure things are fine?" repeats Ryan, clarifying his question needlessly, they both know.

"Why wouldn't they be?" she asks, trying to keep her voice low, glancing around the room at the various cops busy doing their jobs to see if anyone is listening to them.

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe because Castle proposed to you and then you left town for three months and never spoke to him again. Small thing like that," shrugs Ryan.

"We're dealing with it. Okay?" she says, picking up a dainty, ornate travel clock and turning it over in her hands, eyes peeled for an inscription.

"_Are_ you? Or is that Beckett speak for we're ignoring the elephant in the room and pretending that everything is—"

"_Ryan!_" snaps Kate, raising a few stares and a few eyebrows for a brief second. "I said we're dealing with it, okay?" she repeats, more quietly. "I…I know you all care about Castle. But—"

"No buts. We care about both of you. Today at the precinct…Jeez, Beckett, the guy is a mess."

"He just released himself from hospital last night, _AMA_, after being held captive for days, drugged, tortured, taunted, underfed. You don't think that might have something to do with it?" she asks, her voice a hissed, angry stage whisper.

"You sure that's all it is?"

"Look. I know what I did…taking the job, leaving the way I did, it was wrong. Okay. You don't have to tell me that. And believe me, I am doing my best to fix it. But I can only go at Castle's pace right now. I've hurt him badly, Ryan. I need to get him to trust me again. Because right now, we don't even have that," she admits, carefully placing the little floral, enamel clock back down on the desk.

"I'm sorry. You know I wouldn't normally interfere," he says. "But, way I see it, you've got a short window in which to fix this thing. We catch Tyson and your time in the city is up. The clock is ticking, Beckett. Don't waste the time you have left."

"I don't intend to."

"Good. All I needed to hear," he repeats, before walking away to join Rachel in the bedroom.

* * *

"What'd Ryan want?" asks Esposito, seeing how troubled Kate looks once he's gone, giving her a friendly nudge with his elbow.

"Just practicing playing papa bear," she smiles tightly, looking back over her shoulder.

Esposito nods.

"You okay?"

"I'm tired, Javi," admits Kate. "I'm tired of making mistakes. I…I just want a chance to make things right."

"You'll get it," Esposito assures her, squeezing her shoulder. "Castle's too fair minded not to give you one. The guy loves you. Any fool can see that. Don't give up, 'kay?"

"Thanks," she says, giving him a weak smile in return. "Let's start by finding Tyson and eliminating that threat from our lives."

* * *

She turns away, and then moves on to begin examining the rest of the room.

A tall, upright grandfather clock, standing in one corner of the living room, catches her eye. It's very old, the beveled glass encasing the face scratched and worn with age. She leaves the living room and moves into the bedroom.

The dressing table over by the window is an antique kind with space for a stool built in underneath and a tri-fold vanity mirror set in top, the silvering behind the glass of the mirror crackled and eroded in places. A matching Victorian dressing table set of silver-backed brush, hand mirror and comb sits atop the burnished patina of the rosewood surface.

"Spot anything peculiar about this apartment?" Kate asks Rachel, opening a little porcelain dish that was sitting on top of the dressing table and removing a small cameo broach pin, a tortoiseshell barrette and a set of blood-colored garnet earrings. She cradles them in her palm. "Look around this place. Sarah Calman is only twenty-three years old. The décor is modern – neutral colors, modern window treatments and furniture that mostly looks like it came from Ikea. So what's she doing with all these antiques in this one tiny apartment?"

"Inheritance?" suggests Rachel.

"That's exactly what I was thinking," agrees Kate. "Some of these items look pretty valuable too," she says, holding up a Victorian mourning locket with a platted lock of hair curled inside the glass back. The gold face of the oval pendant is studded with tiny diamonds and seed pearls.

"There was nothing like this at Jessie's place," Rachel tells Kate. "It was modern all the way."

"Maybe Sarah just likes antiques," suggests Ryan.

"No way she could afford these. She's a grad student. Anyway, what about the jewelry?" says Kate, holding out the pieces she found in the little blue and white Delftware pot. "No, this goes beyond a taste for old furniture. The whole thing doesn't fit together," says Kate, looking around at the pale, Scandinavian style bedframe, the brightly patterned bed linen, the white painted floorboards and plain white rug.

"Maybe furniture isn't all she inherited," suggests Rachel.

"You thinking money too?" nods Kate, in agreement.

"It's possible."

"We should run Sarah's financials when we get back to the Twelfth. Tyson needs money. All this stuff would take too much time to liquidate. But if she has ready cash sitting in account, even stocks of some kind…"

"Puts her in more danger."

* * *

They head back to the Precinct armed with the boxes of paperwork they collected from Sarah Calman's apartment.

"If she's in grad school, why was there no laptop, no computer of any kind in her apartment?" muses Esposito.

"Good point. There were no suitcases either, and from the number of empty hangers in her closet and the gaps in her dresser drawers…" says Rachel.

"You think she planned a trip," asks Esposito.

"Or someone planned it for her," suggests Kate, stretching her aching shoulder muscles and rolling her head on her tired neck.

It's already after nine and they pause their search through stacks of old correspondence, college transcripts, teenage journals and mountains of credit card bills and bank statements to grab something to eat.

"She's a total hoarder when it comes to paperwork, that's for sure," says Rachel, sucking loudly on a candy-striped straw to get at the last of her strawberry milkshake.

Kate looks around the break room. Jordan has taken a day to visit with her daughter who has a toothache. But the one aching hole in the group assembled around the table is Castle. The place feels incomplete without him here - spinning theory and cracking jokes that make their day easier and relieve some of the stress of the hunt. She misses him with a visceral ache. And the saddest part for her is acknowledging that the loss of her partner is all her own doing; that she didn't value his role in her work life, let alone her private life, enough to stop and think about what she was doing when she jumped at the chance to aim for the big leagues in D.C. all by herself.

"Did you see all the concert ticket stubs she kept?" asks Esposito. "Duran Duran," he laughs, bouncing against the back of his chair as he stuffs the last few salty French fries into his mouth.

"Hey!" yells Rachel, kicking his chair. "I'll hear nothing bad said about Simon, John _or _Nick!"

"Come on, girl!" teases Esposito. "Forget the music and just think about the hair for a second."

"Jealous, are we?" quips Rachel, stealing Kate's last couple of fries and then flashing her a friendly grin of apology.

Rachel can eat, Kate is beginning to realize, but how she remains so slim and in shape she has yet to find out.

The friendly banter wafts around her, and though she listens, she doesn't have the energy to join in. When her food is finished she clears her garbage into the trash and is about to call it a night when Captain Gates pokes her head into the room and does it for her, gently ordering her to go home for the day. She says her farewells, promises to pass on their good wishes to Castle and then collects her things, preparing to leave.

* * *

The street is dark and quiet when she gets outside, and a stiff breeze whips her hair around her face. Though she has her gun under her jacket and doesn't feel threatened in any way, she decides to take a cab home instead of heading for the subway. She's bone-achingly tired and soon finds herself outside of Castle's apartment building with no real memory of the journey.

The cop assigned to protect them for the nightshift is stationed down in the lobby, and she flashes her I.D., signs in and gives him a wave on her way to the elevator.

Once upstairs, she fishes the shiny key out of her pocket. It sticks a little in the new lock at first, but soon she it stepping inside the only real home she has right now, letting the quiet warmth envelop her as she shrugs off her jacket and steps out of her boots.

Martha is sitting quietly at the kitchen counter sipping tea, and Kate spies Castle across the room, asleep on the sofa, an open book resting on his chest.

"Hey," she whispers, joining Martha in the kitchen. "How was your day?" she asks, accepting the older woman's hug of welcome.

"Dull," replies Castle's mother. "I think I must have rearranged my closet three times in the last couple of weeks."

"You didn't go out?" asks Kate, making a cup of chamomile tea for herself, before sitting down on the stool opposite Martha's.

"No. I wanted to keep Alexis company. She's been hiding out in her room since her dad got back, worrying about every little noise, jumping every time the phone rings. You know I think this might be bringing back memories from her time in Paris," says Martha, her forehead wrinkled with worry. "I thought she was over that. Now I'm not so sure."

"Martha, most people are lucky. They never encounter events like these in their entire lives and have no reference point if something horrendous like this does happen. Alexis does, unfortunately, so her dad's disappearance will have hit her harder and on more levels than other kids her age."

"We've spent our lives being so careful with her, Katherine. Trying to protect her from the world while giving her freedom when she pushed for it. It pains me to see her go through this, let alone witness the nightmare Richard is having to face."

"How's he doing?" asks Kate, looking at the man himself, stretched out fast asleep on the sofa.

"Oh, you know Richard. He likes to think he hides things well. Joking around, deflecting what he's really feeling in case one of us should see how troubled he actually is."

Martha sighs and takes another sip of tea.

"I just want this to be over," she admits, in as plaintive a tone as Kate has ever heard her use, and then she thumps her fist down on the countertop for emphasis, her charm bracelet rattling against the marble surface.

"I know," says Kate, sympathetically. "Believe me, I'd be out there right now if Captain Gates hadn't sent me home to get some rest. We're all trying our best to get this guy, Martha, and put him away once and for all. I want that as much as anyone after what he's done to Rick."

"I know you do, dear," sighs Martha, giving her a tired smile and reaching out to pat her hand.

* * *

Martha looks over at her slumbering son.

"You know that's the longest he's been at rest all day. Paced this place like a caged animal after he got back from the therapist's office. I don't know what to do to help him."

"He's been held against his will for days," Kate reminds her gently. "The adjustments he has to make now he's back at home will be huge. It's easy to believe that removing the threat will simply fix everything. But that's often not the case. He has to learn to be himself again, and after the poison Tyson poured in his ear, the road to recovery may be a long one."

"But what can we do? We have to help him somehow," says Martha, her brow knotted with worry. "I can't sit here for one more day watching him torture himself while he pretends that everything is fine."

"He's getting professional help. Let him know that you're here for him if he wants to talk. But sometimes the best thing we can do for people at times like this is to allow them their own space. And just be ready to listen when they'll let us."

"Do you really believe that?" asks Martha, looking archly at Kate.

"I know that it's a hard thing to do. But I have to. He won't let me in either. All I can give him is time and then hope he comes to me when he's ready. At least I've told him I want to talk. I can't push him anymore than that. Not right now."

Martha nods and then catches a yawn with her hand, stifling it.

"You look tired. Why not go upstairs and lie down at least, even if you can't sleep right away," suggests Kate.

"What about you?"

Kate glances over at Castle.

"I'm going to grab a few hours sleep in the guest room if I can. I want to make an early start in the morning and I don't want to disturb Rick if I get a call out in the middle of the night," Kate lies, quite convincingly.

She thinks that sharing a bed again is too premature, as their aborted attempt at doing so proved last night. They're both too confused and hurting too badly for it to be anything other than a disaster; neither wholly capable of accepting or giving comfort before they are able to sit down and talk things through.

"He does miss you, you know," reassures Martha, giving her a soft motherly look. "Hang in there, kiddo."

"Don't worry. I intend to," Kate assures her.

The two women part ways, Martha heading up to her own bedroom and Kate returning to Castle's room to collect her own things and then turn in for the night.

* * *

Kate removes her make-up in Castle's en suite bathroom, collects a light-weight sweatshirt and cotton shorts from the dresser and carries her little bundle out into the living room ready to go upstairs for the night.

She pauses beside the sofa for a moment to watch Castle sleep: his lips slightly parted, the soft sound of his breathing, the rapid flit of his eyes beneath his eyelids all confirming the depth of his slumber. She feels something tug inside her chest as she stands over him.

She notes the open book held to his chest – a collection of short stories by the author Patrick McGrath. Three tales all set in New York before and after 9/11, and she wonders the significance of his selection. The trio of novellas is entitled 'Ghost Town'.

When she can no longer deem her own observance of him anything other than creepy, she heads for the stairs, silently making her way up to the guest bedroom, where someone has thoughtfully remade the bed she left airing that morning.

She changes swiftly into her nightclothes and is sitting on the edge of the bed setting the alarm on her phone for six the next morning when she hears a light tapping on the bedroom door.

* * *

"Come in," she whispers, so as not to disturb anyone who might already be asleep in the loft.

When Castle's head appears around the edge of the door, she couldn't be more surprised. She expected Martha or Alexis even, but after the slumbering state she left Castle in downstairs not five minutes ago, to see him at her door is a genuine surprise.

"Hey," she whispers, waving him inside as she swivels on the bed, crossing her legs and patting the bottom corner for him to sit down. "I thought you were sleeping."

"I was," he says, stretching until his whole body shudders and then he goes a little limp. "Just woke up. Think I was cold," he tells her, his filter maybe a little broken by his sleepiness, if this honesty is anything to go by.

He looks confused and adorable: his hair rumpled, his cheeks a little flushed, his plaid flannel shirt open at the neck exposing the bruised skin beneath. She wants to kiss him, _badly_. She knows that she can't. But it doesn't stop her earnestly wanting too.

"When did you get home?" he asks, eyes roving over her, checking out her sweatshirt, which has slipped off one shoulder leaving her skin bare and moonlike in the glow from the bedside lamp, and her shorts, which are more or less decent, but still leave her long limbs folded and naked on the bed in front of him.

"Just after ten. I sat up with your mom for a little while. She's worried about you," Kate tells him, looking down at her toes, the nails left unpainted for weeks on end, no one to primp or dress up for.

"I'm worried about me too," jokes Castle, grinning, until he sees Kate's serious expression.

"Don't give me that look," he tells her, when she fails to move her quietly earnest gaze off his face.

"What look?" asks Kate, innocently.

"You know the one. Coming from you it's hypocritical."

"Fine," she huffs, grabbing a pillow and pounding it into her lap. "But would it hurt you to be honest with her? Tell her you're angry, Rick. Explain to her that you're scared. That's not weakness. It's a sign of strength and it'll keep her off your back. She knows you're putting on a show for her. You don't have to do that here," she says, gently, reaching out to touch his arm. "Not at home with the people who care about you."

"How was work? Make any progress?" he asks, obliquely changing the subject, watching as her fingers slip off his shirt and she drops her hand back on top of the pillow.

"We were raiding Sarah Calman's apartment when I spoke to you. No sign of Tyson having been there apart from three sets of dirty dishes left lying in the kitchen sink."

"Rushed departure?" asks Castle.

"Nope. Looks like Sarah packed for a trip. Some clothes, underwear, toothbrush…that kind of thing, all gone. There was no laptop or phone charger anywhere in the apartment. We did find her passport in a drawer. But she'd only used it once before, so…" Kate shrugs.

"What about the neighbors? Speak to them?"

"Couple of uniforms went door to door. Usual story. Nice girl, kept to herself, sister visited occasionally. Couple of friends would come by. But no wild parties, no boyfriend, no loud music. I doubt most of them could even conjure up an accurate description of her if they had to."

"Dead end then?"

"Not wholly. The apartment was super neat and very modern, except for a few pieces of antique furniture which didn't fit in with her the rest of the décor. She's so young, Castle. These things were heavy, dark, old-fashioned pieces."

"The kind of thing a grandparent might leave behind?"

"Exactly. So we're digging around her financials looking for any sign of an inheritance, a bequest, a trust...anything like that. Jessie's place had none of that type of furniture, which is odd if it has been left by a close relative."

"People do play favorites, you know," reminds Castle. "Even with sisters."

"Yeah, you could be right," nods Kate, quite enjoying discussing the case with him.

"Or maybe Jessie just wasn't the sentimental type. She could have gotten rid of a gift like that. Sold it, maybe?"

"No. No, I didn't meet Sarah. But Jessie is definitely an old fashioned, romantic girl. If someone gave her those things she would have held onto them. Treasured them even."

"Hard to imagine someone like that choosing to be with…"

Castle tales off, unable to say the monster's name.

"I think he is a man of many faces, Castle. You were convinced he was still alive, and I wouldn't listen to you. He completely fooled me when he came to view my apartment. For which I owe you such a massive—"

"Shhh," says Castle, stretching out his hand to silence her with a press of his fingers to her lips.

Kate freezes at his touch and Castle quickly drops his hand.

"He drove me and my family around for weeks on end. You weren't the only one he fooled, Kate. We're both victims here. I'm as sorry as you are, believe me."

"God, this is a nightmare," sighs Kate, dropping her elbows onto the pillow and bringing her forehead down to rest on her hands, her back bowed, stomach curled inwards.

* * *

"Did you eat already?" asks Castle, changing the subject away from Tyson.

Kate smiles up at him, her eyes suddenly twinkling.

"Burger, fries and a vanilla shake from Remy's," she grins, and he grins back, remembering so many happy, shared meals, so many unofficial dates early on; crammed into a booth thigh-to-thigh, arms brushing when they had no need to sit so close.

"I wish you hadn't told me that," he groans, clutching his stomach. "Now I'm craving one of their chocolate shakes and a basket of curly fries."

"Have lunch with me," says Kate, impulsively.

"What?" asks Castle, surprised and instantly wary of her request.

"Have lunch with me tomorrow," she repeats, determined to face down her own fear of being rejected by him.

"You're prepared to eat at Remy's two days running?" he asks her, giving her a suspicious look, eyes narrowed comically. "I thought you always said you needed a clear seven days between—"

"Then pick somewhere else," she interjects. "Just…let's have lunch, Castle. Get out of…here," she says, looking around the small guest room. "Out of the Twelfth."

"What about the case?"

"That's the only caveat to the invite, obviously. But you already know that. Come on, Castle. Say yes. You know you want to," she needles, poking his shoulder with her foot, making him overbalance a little, until he has to grab hold of her ankle to stay on the bed.

"You're not going to let up until I agree, are you?" he laughs, letting her leg go.

"Just returning the favor," she tells him, giving him a meaningful, knowing look.

"I have Burke at five," he reminds her.

"I haven't forgotten. We need an hour for lunch, tops. I'll have you back on the street well before your appointment. Don't worry. Officer Torres can come too if you think we need a chaperone," she tells him, her cheeks barely coloring at her sudden boldness.

"Boring Bob?" he asks, rolling his eyes and patting his hand over his mouth to stifle a fake yawn, making Kate laugh.

"_So_…is that a date?" she pushes, plucking at a feather that's sticking out of the pillow on her lap while she nervously awaits his answer.

"It's lunch. I can't make any bigger promises than—"

"I was teasing," she hurries to tell him. "Lunch is more than I deserve from you, I know," she says, looking contrite and sincere.

"Oh, believe me, you're gonna be the one picking up the tab," says Castle, trying to keep it light, when they both know that what they're agreeing to is far from light, in reality.

"Not a problem. But honestly, lunch is more than I could have hoped for. So, thank you. We don't even have to talk. This is not an ambush. Don't worry. I just think it will do us both good to get out into the world again and experience a little normality. I know I could use some. I can't remember the last time I ate out and I wasn't alone," she says, almost talking to herself.

Castle hears this confession and stores away its implications greedily. One of his unvoiced fears was that she had already moved on while living in D.C., started seeing someone else, no matter how casually.

* * *

"Right. We should both try to get some sleep," says Kate, when the silence between them gets a little on the heavy side.

"You sure you're okay up here?" he asks, looking around the neat, but impersonal guest room.

"One step at a time," she tells him, dumping the pillow off her lap to get up from the bed and walk him to the door.

Castle stands too, his inability to control his temper last night at the root of her flight upstairs to sleep in this little room all alone. He feels regretful, until he thinks back to Dr. Burke's advice about shared intimacy and the harm it can do to a relationship at a time like this.

"One step at a time," he repeats, stepping closer to her as he does so.

He takes her hand, and Kate looks down to find her small palm lying open in between his two large hands. He cradles her right hand with one of his own while he strokes his index finger across her lifeline, tracing its path with aching tenderness and a complete lack of haste, until he stops, and they look up at one another.

* * *

Their embrace takes them both by surprise; the wordless, soundless, migration of their bodies towards one another completed in a blink of an eye. One minute they are a foot apart, the next they have their arms wrapped around one another and silent tears are falling. He's warm and solid and smells of soap and sleep. They stand like that for a couple of minutes, holding each other close, swaying slightly, hearts beating rapidly, before Castle lets his arms loosen and slide down Kate's back, briefly catching both her hands in his, squeezing once, before he steps back away from her.

Kate swiftly dries her damp cheeks with the cuff of her sweatshirt. Castle reaches out to smooth away the last of her tears with his thumb, giving her a watery smile in the process.

"I'm sorry I don't have more right now," he tells her, dropping his head to look at the floor, pausing, before he turns away towards the door. "Sleep well," he says, reaching for the handle.

"Rick?" she calls out, before he can open the door.

"Yeah?" he asks, his face, when he turns back round, telling her that he is as deeply affected by what just happened between them as she is.

"Thank you. For today."

"We have a long road ahead of us," he tells her, shaking his head. "I'm in no position to offer you anything here, Kate. No promises. Not yet."

"I don't need anymore than you just gave me, Castle. Not right now. That's enough for me," she assures him.

"Goodnight," he nods, stepping out of the bedroom without looking back.


	28. Chapter 28 - It's Not A Date

_**Chapter 28: It's Not a Date**_

Kate wakes with a dilemma.

It's painfully early – only 5.30am – but she can't sleep anymore, so she decides that getting back to work will be the best use of her time and the best way to manage her racing, troubled brain. But her clothes are still in Castle's bedroom closet and he's asleep downstairs. She doesn't want to wake him, but she needs to get dressed to go to work. She's stuck.

She gets out of bed, showers in the guest bathroom, puts on a robe and heads downstairs to make coffee and at least eat some cereal to start her day off right and maybe kill a little time until she can come up with a stealthy plan to get around her current problem.

The kitchen is quiet, the living room bathed in the violet-grey luminosity of early dawn. She switches on the small light over the stove and sets about making coffee as quietly as she can.

* * *

Five minutes later, she has the glass pot poised over a large white mug, holding her hand steady to pour, since she made too large a serving and the pot is extra heavy, when she's startled enough that she misses the mug and dribbles coffee out onto the countertop.

"Jeez!" she yelps, hoisting the jug upright so she can stop the flow of hot brown liquid and clean up the mess.

"I thought I heard noises out here," croaks Castle, his voice sleep-roughened, his face scarred by deep red creases that run down at an angle across his right cheek.

He's rubbing one eye, his navy robe hanging loose from his shoulders, a white undershirt and navy, striped pajama pants on underneath.

Kate is struck, and not for the first time, by his elegant toes. He has beautiful feet for a man of his size. His graceful arches sweep downwards to meet his long, pale phalanges where they emerge from the hem of his cotton sateen pants.

Kate stares, and Castle follows her eyes downwards, staring with her for a second or two at his own feet, before he frowns and then lets his eyes travel back up over _her_ body, taking in the drape of the white cotton waffle robe that hangs loosely on her too-thin frame. He's like a tourist visiting a national monument in the careful, unhurried way he observes her – his gaze grave, solemn, reverent and studied.

"Eh…coffee?" asks Kate, when she finally gets her wits about her.

"Why not. May as well," he says, shuffling closer.

"Can't sleep? Hope I didn't wake you?" asks Kate, anxiously, because she knows how important sleep is to his recovery.

"No," he reassures her. "Just been lying there, tossing and turning for the last half hour at least."

"Funny. That's when I woke up," says Kate, handing him a steaming mug of fresh coffee.

"Bad dream?" asks Castle, unwittingly giving away his own reason for insomnia.

"No," murmurs Kate, taking a sip of the hot liquid. "Busy mind. Time I was back at the Precinct."

Castle nods silently, thinking about what she's just said.

"Wish I could go with you."

"Gates would flip," says Kate, smiling at him over the rim of her coffee. "She only let me back on the case because Jordan forced her hand. Even then she made me accept reduced hours. So…"

"She has a point," muses Castle, leaning over the counter. "We _are_ a little invested in the outcome of this one," he says, peering up at her after delivering the mother of all understatements.

"Listen to you all mature and grown up. You _do_ realize you just agreed with Iron Gates," she jokes, prodding him in the shoulder.

"First time for everything," admits Castle, straightening up and moving away slightly to claim a stool.

Kate turns away to get a cereal bowl out of a high cabinet.

"Thought I'd eat something before I go in. You want cereal?" she asks him, poised to lift out a second bowl.

"Nah. Too early. I'll get something later," he tells her, the exhaustion in his voice telling her he didn't sleep much after they said goodnight the previous evening.

"Castle, you know you can ask Dr. Burke to prescribe something if you're not sleeping," Kate says lightly, tipping a small avalanche of Raison Bran into her bowl.

"I don't want to take pills," he insists.

"Fine. Just a suggestion," she says, to his slightly testy reply.

"After the drugs I've— Look, I just want to get my system clean," he tells her, drinking more of his coffee.

"Right. Sorry, I wasn't thinking," says Kate, wincing to herself.

* * *

She sits at the counter opposite Castle to eat her breakfast. It's quiet and pretty easy, neither of them in much of a mood to talk since it's still so early. But she's glad to find that it doesn't feel awkward. The silence is restful and undemanding.

"Can I ask you something?" Castle finally says, as she's scraping together the last remnants of soggy bran flakes and dark, juicy raisins onto her spoon.

"Anything," she tells him, glancing up at him with the fully loaded silverware poised halfway to her mouth.

"Why? Um…you willingly let him…I mean, when he took you into the bedroom, was there no way that you could have…?"

Castle stops talking in order to take a few deep breaths after stumbling through the previous broken up, jumbled bits of sentence. He shakes his head from side-to-side, like he's clearing water out of his ears, and then he looks back up at her again. He looks heart-broken and it tears at her to see him so damaged by this; so haunted.

"Hey!" says Kate, reaching her hand across the island in search of his. "Hey, hey," she sings, titling her head to one side in an attempt to capture his gaze and get his downcast eyes to fix on hers. "Rick?" she says, finally finding his hand and squeezing it. "Rick, look at me."

When he won't look up at her, she thinks about hopping down off her stool and running round to his side of the counter to…

To _what_? Hug him? Touch him? She doesn't know what level of physical intimacy he can cope with at this point, and she remembers how she felt when she was this traumatized. Being grabbed and squeezed by someone, even him, would not have been a pleasant feeling at that moment. So she settles for the hand holding and reassuring his with her voice and her words instead.

"Willingness is…_no,_" she shakes her head. "There was _never_ any willingness on my part beyond a desire to get out of there alive. Castle, look at me," she commands, when he keeps his broken-hearted, puppy dog eyes trained on the marble worktop.

Finally he drags his gaze up to look at her face. His irises are almost navy blue in this dawning light, his back to the windows, no luminosity thrown onto his face to help it aside from he meager light from atop the stove.

"We both did what we had to survive. And that was all we could do," she reassures him.

"The thought that you had to…"

"_Castle!_" she says sharply, taking this opportunity that he has given her to make herself abundantly clear to him.

"What?"

"You're not listening to me. We had _no_ choice. _I _had no choice. We weren't to know that he wanted to keep us both alive so we would be left damaged by this…this sick little piece of theater he constructed for us. But if I had the time over, I'd do the exact same thing again, make all the same choices. Because we're both still alive, and that's all that counts. This is a _win_," she stresses to him, clasping his hand in both of hers. "And we need to start looking at it that way, and stop letting the sickness and the doubt and the what if scenarios into our heads to torment us."

He listen to her, and it's as if he wants to believe what she's telling him is the truth, but his judgment is so badly impaired that he can't tell the truth from a lie anymore.

"What he did to us – bugging your home, listening in while we made love, recording and using those…those intimate moments against us – it's abhorrent. Every second of it. But what you heard from the next room was _me_ trying to _save_ us, trying to find a way through that wouldn't end up with one of us dead or gravely injured. There was never a seconds' pleasure in any of it for me. You have to believe that. I fought him as much as I could, but there was no way out that didn't hold the threat of that crossbow bolt going straight through your skull."

"But what if he had actually…"

He chokes out enough of the question that she gets the drift of his core fear.

"What? _Raped_ me?" asks Kate, leaning over the counter, her head lowered to meet his eyes.

"Yes. What then?"

"Castle, I…I know you don't want to hear this right now. It's not even fair of me to bring it up in any conversation that involves that guy. But you need to understand here, once and for all. I would have endured _whatever_ he felt like throwing at me, if it meant I got to save you. It's really that simple. I might not have acted like it recently, in fact I know I haven't, but you mean that much to me. I would have done anything," she says, staring into his eyes. "Now…can we please change the subject?" she asks, surprising Castle with both her vehemence and her sudden need to move on.

"Sure. Sorry. I wasn't thinking," he adds, as if snapping out of a trance. "You have a job to do."

"No," she shakes her head, touching his hand once more before she fully withdraws to her own side of the counter to finish drinking her coffee. "No. It's fine. You need to talk about these things. I understand."

* * *

She carries her dishes to the sink to begin washing them, but Castle insists on taking over.

"My clothes are still in your closet. Okay if I get dressed in there?" she asks, the tone between them heavier and more subdued after their recent exchange.

"Help yourself," he says, rinsing her dishes before stacking them in the dishwasher.

She puts her make-up on in the bathroom, dresses in black pants and a loose white tee, throwing her leather jacket over the top. Castle has never asked where her power suits are – the wardrobe of new outfits she updated to create a suitable uniform before she left for D.C. The only things she brought with her were relaxed and relatively casual. But so far he has failed to notice.

He taps on the bedroom door as she's carefully tucking the two rings down the front of her shirt.

"All decent in here?" he calls out, and she finds it sad, since they love one another's bodies and were never shy about sharing them in the past.

But they are in a different place now, she tells herself, calling out for him to come in.

"All done," she tells him, smoothing down the front of her pants as she stands.

"I thought about redecorating in here after you left," he says, randomly, looking around the dark, masculine bedroom.

Kate looks with him. All of it - every picture, mirror, every piece of furniture and objet d'art - so familiar to her; as familiar as her own apartment was. It's as close to a home as she has anywhere in the world right now.

"I'm glad you didn't," she tells him, lightly touching his arm as she brushes past him to get to the door.

"Kate?" he calls, turning to face her as she's about to leave.

"Yeah?" she asks, her face turned hopefully towards him.

"How about sushi for lunch? We could meet at that place over on—"

"Sushi?" she frowns, her lips wrapping around a puzzled smile. "But you hate sushi."

"I know," he says lightly. "But _you_ don't."

The suggestion is sweet coming from him, since she has listened to him drone on over the years about how wasabi is the devil's work and real men can't be expected to exist on papery thin seaweed wrapped around little tubes of rice that house a single sliver of raw tuna.

"I'll do you a deal," she tells him. "I will break my seven day rule and meet you for lunch at Remy's today. _If_," she pauses, smiling at the new eagerness on his face, "_if_ you agree to go back to bed and try to sleep for a couple more hours."

"But, Kate…" he begins to protest.

"Nah-huh. No '_but Kate'_. That's the deal, Castle. Take it or leave it. You want that chocolate shake and curly fries?"

"I do," he admits, already tasting the food on his tongue.

"Then into bed with you. And don't think I won't call Martha to check up on you," she warns, pausing at the door to give him a wave.

"I'll call you later. Confirm a time, okay?" she tells him, before she closes the door behind her.

Castle nods, and she knows there is guilt and regret on his face that he isn't going with her; part of the hunting pack, sniffing out blood, ready to tear Tyson limb-from-limb when they find him.

* * *

The Precinct is buzzing already, a hive of activity with Jordan Shaw back at its center – the Queen Bee.

"Hey, how's your boyfriend?" she inquires, that lopsided, clever grin on her face.

"At home, sleeping hopefully," offers Kate, to a surprised lift of the eyebrows from Jordan.

"Coffee. Break room. Now," she tells Kate, ushering her away by the arm.

Kate busies herself with the hateful coffee machine, trying to channel Castle to get it to work smoothly for her, feeling Jordan somewhere behind her, lounging on a stool, watching her all the while.

"So," she says, eventually, "spill!"

"Spill?" mutters Kate, moping up the damp grounds she just tipped out over the counter.

"Yeah. This I need to hear. I'm gone for one day and suddenly three months of silence are forgotten and you left the man in bed this morning," she grins, enjoying her own version of events so much that Kate is almost reluctant to burst her little fantasy bubble.

"Not exactly how that sounds," she says, handing Jordan her cup and sitting down with her own.

"So, what'd I miss? Because I know I missed something."

"We…we _are_ talking…a little. But it's difficult. He doesn't trust me. But then there's no reason he should. And I think he feels a lot of guilt over what happened with Tyson at my apartment. That he couldn't protect me. He asked me why I went willingly this morning."

Kate lets out a short, bitter laugh, shakes her head.

"You did tell him that you didn't have a choice, right?" asks Jordan.

"I tried to. I'm not sure he hears or even believes much of anything I tell him anymore."

"Give it time, Kate. It's early days for a trauma like this."

"I know. Of course, it doesn't help that he's not sleeping."

"Are you?"

"Better than he is. And I'm in the guest room, so you know," adds Kate, for clarity sake.

"I wasn't prying," adds Jordan, though they both that know she was. "Is he getting any help?"

"Yes. And I'm meeting him for lunch today, if you can spare me. Thought some normality would do us both good."

"After what you've both been through? Sure. Take the whole hour," she grins.

"You know he'd be in here working the case with us if he thought he could get away with it," Kate informs Jordan. "Sometimes I wonder if that wouldn't be the best thing for him."

"You know that can't happen," confirms Jordan.

"Yes," sighs Kate. "But it's not like he's able to write at home to distract himself, and he gets bored and lonely without people around him."

"This isn't a book club or a kindergarten, Kate. We need to stay focused on the job."

"And we have been," insists Kate. "All of us."

"I heard about the raid on Sarah Calman's place. We need to get ahead of this thing and not find ourselves following cold leads all the time."

* * *

The two women get up and take their coffee back out into the bullpen.

"Where are we on Sarah and Jessie's financials?" Kate asks Ryan.

"The girls were orphaned aged three and nine. Parents died in a freak accident."

Kate raises a questioning eyebrow.

"Avalanche on a skiing trip to Colorado," fills in Rachel. "I spoke to an aunt."

"Ouch," says Jordan.

"Anyway, grandparents got custody. Family court sealed the case, so we applied for a warrant to get the details released. Just waiting for a judge to sign the paperwork. Should have gone through last night. But Gates heard something about the Opera and an opening night gala," shrugs Ryan.

"You thinking family trust?" asks Jordan.

"Not sure yet. But both girls owned their apartments outright. No mortgage outstanding on either of them."

"Impressive," comments Kate.

"Until," says Ryan, holding up a hand.

"Until?" asks Kate.

"Two and a half months ago, when Jessie took out a loan against her property from Franklin Savings and Loan. She made the first repayment. But as of today, the remainder of the lien is outstanding."

"She didn't seem the reckless type," says Kate, turning to Rachel to back up her statement.

"But she was in love with that monster," points out Rachel. "Totally under his spell. If she stole drugs for him from the hospital...the loan is entirely possible."

"Maybe she stopped repaying the loan because they planned to disappear all along?" suggests Ryan.

"But why the heck would she drag her sister into this?" muses Kate. "And how? Didn't even sound as if her sister liked the guy."

"She certainly didn't approve of the way Jessie ran after him," agrees Rachel.

"I might have some answers on that front," says Esposito, coming back along the hall waving a file. "Judge came through. Family court just faxed over the documents. Turns out Jessie and Sarah were subject to a protective custody order at the time of their parent's death. They were already well known to the Children's Services. There's quite a dossier here."

"Abuse?" asks Kate.

"Multiple hospital visits. Father strongly suspected. Mother turning a blind eye. Complicit, but not actively involved in the abuse. Court placed them in emergency foster care for six months while the parents were given time to clean up their act. They failed to appear at the first scheduled Permanency Hearing. Went on vacation instead."

Esposito shrugs, letting this information sink in.

"The _skiing_ vacation?" checks Rachel.

Esposito nods.

"Karma's a bitch, right?" she mutters, leaning back in her chair to read the file he hands her.

"So you think the girls were close, given what they went through together?" asks Kate.

"Division of Child Protection reports state that they couldn't be separated. Jessie looked after Sarah, mothered her. They even insisted on sharing a bed for the first few months."

"That would make them both vulnerable to an abuser like Tyson. Let's face it, he's an orphan too, screwed up by his own mother, and he's smart enough to be able to manipulate people who haven't suffered the early childhood damage these girls have. Getting inside their heads would be a walk in the park for him," says Jordan.

"There's a lot to link them to him, make them vulnerable to his supposed charm, that's for sure," agrees Rachel.

"Out of interest, what did the parents do?" asks Kate, depositing her empty mug on a desk and crossing her arms.

"Father was a banker. Mother the happy little homemaker," offers Esposito.

"Great," says Jordan, slapping her hand down on the desk. "So, not a food stamp, crack pipe or missed rent payment in sight." Before hastily adding, "Not that there is _ever_ an excuse."

"Okay. Let's divide up this paperwork," suggests Kate. "See if there's anything more to be gleaned from the girl's lives. Get a trace on Sarah's cell phone, and alerts on both their credit cards. And lets look at the grandparents too. Tyson might behave like a lone wolf most of the time, but Jessie Calman may not have outlived her usefulness just yet."

* * *

Kate breaks for lunch at one, having called Castle and agreed to meet him at Remy's, Jordan's mischievous order to _'Have fun on your date'_, still ringing in her ears.

He's sitting in a booth by the window when she enters. Their old favorite booth in the corner is empty, she notes with a pang. But she covers it well when she slides into the seat opposite him. They're having lunch at least, a feat that would have seemed impossible just a couple of weeks ago.

"Well?" she says, her eyes narrowing as she looks him over. "Tell me you slept some more," she says, dragging the large, laminated menu towards her.

"You want me to start lying to you, Beckett?" he asks, a faint twinkle of humor in his tired eyes. "_Now._ After all this time?"

She's pleased to find him in a playful mood, but is still worried that he's using humor as a smoke screen to hide behind.

"Castle, sleep is important," she reiterates, taking a sip from the brown plastic water glass the waitress places on their table.

She fishes out the lemon wedge from her glass, dumping it onto a saucer, and Castle scoops it up immediately, dropping it into his own water glass.

This is who they are. This is what they do. Neither of them miss the small significance of his act.

"I tried. But…" he shakes his head, picking up his own menu, scanning it with unseeing eyes. "Things are a little out of whack right now. It'll get better," he assures her, and she's not sure which of them he's trying to convince more - her or himself.

"Where's Boring Bob, by the way?" asks Kate, looking around the restaurant for Castle's NYPD minder.

"I'm having lunch with a woman who carries as gun," he whispers, as if confiding an intimate secret to her, leaning forwards across the table as he does so, his menu held up to shield them from the rest of the diner. "I convinced him to come meet me here when we're done."

"Good. I thought for a second you'd managed to lose him."

"Only to the flirtatious charms of my mother," sighs Castle, shaking his head.

Kate smiles. Suddenly finding the directness of Castle's gaze a little unnerving, she glances back down at her own menu as a means of escape. Who's hiding now?

* * *

"Why are we even pretending to look at these?" she asks, after a couple of quiet seconds, laughing when she drops the wobbling menu back down on top of the table.

"The usual?" asks Castle, grinning back at her.

"Yeah, but you're eating your own fries this time, Mister. You order curly, you're not getting any of mine."

"But yours taste so good," he blurts, and the innuendo laden remark is out of his mouth before he can stop it.

Kate stares at him, her bottom lip sucked in between her teeth, a mischievous glint in her eye, waiting to see if he will back down or take back his playful remark in some way.

"Kate. Why did we ever stop—?" he begins to say, just as their waitress arrives back at the booth to take their order.

"Hey! Long time no see, guys," she grins, her voice booming loudly over the low hum of customers' voices and background music. "Where have y'all been hiding out? Long vacation?"

"Yeah, something like that," replies Kate, kicking Castle under the table to get him to join the conversation, since he's still staring at her with a look of naked shock on his face; as if something big has just dawned on him.

Kate ends up ordering for both of them, her hands perspiring slightly as she tries to conjure up their food and beverage order while figuring out what Castle was on the precipice of asking her.

The waitress finally leaves them alone, but when she looks back across the table at him his face is back to normal; the window of opportunity slid shut.

"Tell me about the case," he asks, diverting her away from any further personal talk about them.

"Is that the only reason you agreed to have lunch with me? So you could pump me for intel?" she teases, needing to keep things light.

"Not the _only_ reason," he fires back.

Kate raises her eyebrows, trying not to blush, completely falling for his little setup.

"I'm also here because you're paying, Beckett," he laughs, delighting in watching her face fall and then arc up into a wonderful smile.

It's the happiest they've both looked since she left, a fact that hits both of them at about the same time. Their shared laughter feels really good, heady, unifying, and yet so melancholy for its scarcity at the same time.

"We…" stammers Kate, taking the initiative this time. "We used to be so good at this," she says, running a hand through her hair and glancing out the window to give herself time to formulate her next sentence. "Castle, I—"

"Kate, we _got_ good at it…for a while," he reminds her. "But don't forget the years that came before. We were a mess at times. And even when it was good it could be hard work. Swing and a miss so often when it came to you and me and trying to communicate what we wanted."

And it's maybe the most honest thing to come out of his mouth since before she left.

"So, what are you saying? That…that we're better at messy than we are at being…at being good for one another?"

"No," he says, quietly, nodding to their waitress when she plants their food down in front of them. "I'm saying let's talk about the case. For now."

She nods, swallows down the bitter tang of disappointment coating her throat and begins to tell him what they've found out so far.

* * *

They toss ideas around, knocking them back and forth across the table. Silences are few, and even then they're not awkward, she's pleased to note.

"Jordan was asking for you," she tells him eventually, sucking down the last of her milkshake.

"I'll bet," says Castle, dryly. "Finally forced off the team. She must be loving that."

"That's not fair," says Kate. "She actually likes you, likes both of us in fact," she tells him, thinking back to Jordan's comment in the break room the day after she got back from D.C., after she told her about Castle's proposal and her slew of selfish mistakes.

'_My money's been on you guys from the start. No way am I letting Jerry Tyson rob me of a happy ending.'_

"Why does that news worry me even more?" laughs Castle.

"Well, I for one would rather have her on our side, wouldn't you?"

"_Ah._ But would you ask her to dinner?" he grins, pointing at her, like he just won the argument.

"Hey, if she helps us find Tyson, she can move in," quips Kate, sneaking one of Castle's fries when she catches him off-guard with this little tidbit.

"With _whom_?" asks Castle, his eyebrows shooting up towards his hairline in surprise.

* * *

Kate's cell phone rings before she can respond to his question, and she apologizes quickly to take the call.

"They have a line on a couple of properties the grandparents owned," she tells him, frowning as she hangs up her cell phone.

"Hey. What's up?" asks Castle, concerned by her sudden change of demeanor.

Kate shakes her head. She can't tell him what Ryan said the day before – that there is a window of opportunity in which she can fix things between them, and the closer they get to finding Tyson the narrower that window becomes. Rushing him at this point would be unfair and counterproductive.

"I have to go," she says, regretfully, pulling her wallet out of her jacket and stuffing a bundle of notes under her empty shake glass.

"Sure," says Castle, suddenly somber and serious looking too. "Thank you for lunch," he tells her, rising from the booth at the same time she does.

He takes her leather jacket from her hand and helps her into it, no long chestnut curls to free from under the collar anymore, a fact she's beginning to regret. Still, her hair will grow back. Their relationship and his lack of trust will not be so easily repaired.

"Hope you have a productive session with Burke this afternoon," she says, taking hold of the edge of his jacket, mostly through habit.

Castle looks down at her hand, her fingers clutching the dark fabric, her thumb caressing the single button.

"See you tonight? I'll do my best to stay awake this time."

"I'd rather you didn't. You need to sleep when you can."

The look he gives her is so fond, so soft and close to loving that she finds herself swaying towards him a little.

"You really do care, don't you?" he says, and it's as if he's realizing this fact for the first time.

"I never stopped. I just didn't know how to do everything," she admits, lowering her eyes and then swinging them back up to meet his.

Castle nods, mulling over her words.

"Tell Jordan I said hi," he says finally, clearing his throat and pulling back from her, forcing her to let go of his coat.

"Sure," she says, giving him a small wave as she walks to the door of the diner, her shoulders slightly hunched, her mind reeling from the powerful ricochet of emotions the last hour has whipped up around them.

* * *

Castle watches her leave, watches her stride off down the street, her hips swinging, long legs eating up the sidewalk, men and women looking at her as she goes. He watches her with a pang of covetous pride until she disappears from sight, before pulling a notepad out of his inside breast pocket and beginning to make notes. He writes down every tiny detail he can remember, every scrap of information she shared with him. When he has exhausted his memory of their conversation, he pulls out his phone, calls Officer Torres, telling him to meet him outside the diner as soon as he can.

After he hangs up, he dials a second number, tapping his pen impatiently on the tabletop as he waits for the line to connect.

"Harry Sullivan, you sly old dog. Rick Castle. Long time, no speak…"

* * *

_A/N: Hope everyone is having a lovely, restful weekend. Liv_


	29. Chapter 29 - Fishing Expedition

_A/N: I know this has turned into a long and sometimes painful journey, so thank you for sticking with it. _

* * *

_**Chapter 29: Fishing Expedition**_

"It's good to see you again, Rick," says Dr. Burke, opening the folder he has sitting in his lap before looking up at the writer to assess his demeanor. "How are you feeling today?" he asks, once Castle is settled in the chair closest to the window, the filtered shaft of light coming through the blinds illuminating one side of his face, leaving the other half cast in shadow.

"You know," Castle shrugs, his communication skills still a little blunted by his time in captivity.

"Why don't you try and tell me. How have you been sleeping, for example?" suggests Burke, his infinite reserves of patience brought into play once more.

"Honestly, Doc? Not so good."

"Are you managing to fall asleep and then finding you're wakening up throughout the night or…?"

"He used to visit me," explains Castle, veering off down a dark path into another of his visitations to _that_ time, that time period he can't bring himself to discuss with anyone else. "After he had me locked away in the bathroom… There are no windows in there. So there was no way to tell time."

"What about a watch or…or light from under the door, perhaps?" prompts Burke, trying to take him back there, to remake his memories into something less frightening if he can, to remove some of the darkness and mystique.

"I wasn't wearing a watch. He took my phone. The soundproofing sealed off the door all the way round so no light or fresh air got in."

"So, you were disoriented?" Burke concludes.

"Yes. I slept when I could. But the drugs messed up my system, and then he would come…"

"Tell me what would happen when he came to visit you?" asks Burke, his tone so even, so lacking in inflection that it's as if Castle can say nothing bad, nothing that will shock this man. That very fact makes this a safe place for talking, Castle can see.

"At first he just brought food and water. I was suspicious…worried he was going to poison me. But then I got so hungry and thirsty I had to eat."

"Did he talk to you?"

"He tried to. Well, more like he taunted me. He knew so much. I didn't know how back then, but he knew so much about my life, my routines, my family..."

"And Kate?"

"Yes. He'd been bugging my home for months. So he had the inside track, knew all the right buttons to push."

"Did you find yourself responding to these attempts to taunt you? Fighting back, verbally speaking?"

"At first. But then the more he got inside my head, the more he hit on every fear, every insecurity, every doubt I had about my relationship…" Castle shrugs with resignation. "He wore me down."

"And you did what?"

"I stopped answering back. But he didn't like that. No fun for him when I stopped displaying my pain."

"And what did he do then? Did he—"

"He beat me," interjects Castle, matter-of-factly.

"Beat you?"

"With a belt…a leather belt. On my back mostly. And this one time," Castle smiles at the memory, at the brief period of peaceful oblivion it brought, "I wouldn't look at him when he told me Kate had met someone in D.C., someone new, and so he choked me. I think I blacked out eventually. I'm not sure how long."

Dr. Burke's face displays none of what he might be thinking as Castle recounts this horror story.

"The bruises on your neck," he nods, at the dark marks visible at Castle's open collar.

"His thumbs," he tells Burke, demonstrating briefly with his own hands how Tyson reversed his strangulation method while standing above the seated writer; his thumbs pressed downwards over Castle's jugular notch and hyoid bone, his fingertips around the back of his neck where most of the bruising would be hidden.

"Seems to me this individual has little self-control when these impulses take over. You did well to survive that, Rick. But the interruptions to your sleep pattern will take time to settle down, a lot like jetlag," he explains. "As I said to you last time, sleep when you can. And if you're finding that even those short naps are being disturbed, we can look at prescribing some medication that might help."

"No. Kate already suggested that," Castle tells Burke. "I don't want to go down a pharmacological route if I can help it."

"I understand. But you do have to ensure you're getting enough rest one way or another. I'm sure I don't have to tell you the effects of prolonged sleep deprivation. Its effectiveness in confusing and altering the mind is the very reason it's used as a method of torture after all."

Castle nods his agreement, stifling a yawn that he knows is part-tiredness and part-suggestion.

* * *

"You mentioned Kate just now," says the doctor, missing nothing, picking up this new thread of conversation and unraveling it. "How are things between you? Have you had an opportunity to talk to her about any of your experiences?"

"I don't want to…to relive that time if I can avoid it, so…no. I haven't talked to her about it in any detail. Haven't talked to anyone. I gave an official statement to one of her co-workers at the Twelfth, and I'm talking to you… So, I figure that's enough with the rehashing."

"Don't underestimate the knowledge and understanding Kate can bring to the table right now. She has a lot of first hand experience to offer you. More than most. I can explain how the mind works, how it protects itself, the ways this trauma might manifest in the days ahead, and how best to aid your own recovery. But Kate has real, situational experience of living through life-altering events and coming out the other side in pretty good shape all things considered. She can help you more than you think."

"I know. I…I know that. It's just…" Castle struggles to explain himself, his reluctance to share with his erstwhile partner.

"Perhaps you don't want to display your vulnerability in front of her?" suggests Burke, intuitively.

"Something like that."

"Can you explain to me why you feel that way?"

Castle sighs, rocks forward in his chair, rubbing both hands down over his cheeks and jaw.

"Cliché. But I don't want her to see me as weak," he finally confesses.

Burke nods, mulls this point over for a second before he begins to speak again.

"After Kate was shot, before she started seeing me, she went away for a while to recover by herself. I understand she cut off contact with her friends and co-workers during that time. If you could have had a say in matters back then, would you have wanted Kate to allow you into her recovery? Would you have wanted a chance to help her?"

"Well, of course," replies Castle. "No brainer."

"And why do you think she chose to shut herself away?"

"Because she's stubborn and private and she thinks she has to tough it out all by herself sometimes. She's just not good at accepting help, at accepting that she needs other people in her life when things get…"

Castle slows his train of thought to a stop, halting his words several meters shy of its final destination.

"Do you see that you could be guilty of doing the same thing in this case?" asks Burke, gently, his suggestion coinciding with Castle's own moment of revelation.

"This is different," argues Castle.

"Explain to me how it's different exactly," probes Burke.

"I…I'm a guy and…" he flounders.

"She's a cop. Look, this isn't about who is toughest, Rick. This is about loving each other enough to share your vulnerabilities as well as your strengths. You might think that displaying weakness is somehow…_unattractive_. Kate will only be grateful that you let her in and that you trust her enough to let her help you through this ordeal."

"Have…have you spoken to her? About me?" asks Castle, his Tyson-induced paranoia back on high alert.

"She called to see how we got on yesterday."

Castle is surprised that she would do this: to hear that she cares enough to not only set the sessions up for him, but to check on his progress too. The information throws him a little, makes him question why he's keeping her out, makes him question his assessment of where they are. But still he wants to shield her from the ugliness he feels swamping the inside his head at the moment.

"I thought our sessions were supposed to be private?"

"They are. Entirely. I told her we'd made a good start. Purely that and nothing else. But from what I know of Kate, I can confidently say that she would be only too glad if you give her an opportunity to let her help you."

* * *

"We had lunch today," Castle tells Burke, this information an offering to show the doctor that he is trying where Kate is concerned. "At Remy's."

"Is this an old haunt of yours?"

"Yeah. Almost since day one," Castle smiles, fond memories flitting through his mind.

"And how did that feel? Going back there to meet her?"

"Weird. Good. I got there first. Couldn't sit in our regular booth though."

"Was it taken already?"

"No. Too many memories," sighs Castle, staring down at his hands, his right knee bouncing like a jackhammer. "I…I'm still holding her at arms length," he admits.

"Why do you think that is?"

"Like I said yesterday, she scares me."

"Would you like to be able to let her back in? To get close to her again?"

Castle closes his eyes, remembers how it felt to hold her in his arms the night before, how slight and soft and wonderful she felt. How familiar and right. He squeezes his eyes tightly closed, pushes the images and the feelings away, slamming a metaphorical door behind them.

"Once this case is over she'll only leave again. So, I figure what's the point."

"Have you asked her what her plans are, or are you guessing?"

"What else will she do? Her life is in D.C. now."

"Her _life_?" asks Burke, his voice failing to hide his surprise at the enormity of this rather sweeping declaration. "That's a pretty big statement."

"Kate's life _is_ her work. It just took me too long to figure that out. To realize that I was never going to change that about her."

"I'm sure you know this already. But we can never really change other people, Rick. We can only accept them as they are and attempt to change ourselves if we feel we need to."

"Yeah. Must have missed that memo," mutters Castle, feeling dejected and pretty hopeless.

"What about the letter she gave you? Did that give you any clues as to her plans for the future or how she's feeling?"

"Those were just words, doctor. Believe me, I know what I'm talking about. I make a good living finding the right words and putting them on a page."

"So you're looking for actions to back up her words?"

"I…I know I sound like I blame her for everything, and I don't. I know I had a part to play too. But, yeah…words are easy."

"Even for Kate Beckett?" asks Burke, clearly dubious of Castle's statement. "Are you sure about that?"

Castle stares at the blinds, lost in thought for several seconds, unable or unwilling to respond to Burke's last comment. It contains a lot of truth, even if he's too hurt to admit it right now.

Dr. Burke gives him a moment to think about what's just been said before he tries a new tack, since it's clear that no matter how hard they try to tackle the trauma caused by Tyson's abduction and mistreatment of Castle, all roads keep leading back to Kate Beckett, and they will get nowhere if they do not tackle the root issues in that relationship.

* * *

"Look, I have a suggestion. You both seem to have some trouble communicating openly with one another. You said so yourself, even before she took the job, am I right?"

Castle nods.

"And you need to know what her plans are before you can move forward with your life, in whichever direction that turns out to be. You're having lunch together, she's living in your apartment, she wrote you a letter… But what does any of that mean? You're confused, am I right?"

"Confused. Angry. I can't even help work the case. They won't let me…something about being a victim. Which is real helpful," he grouses, shifting position in his chair, as if his nervous energy can barely be contained, despite his lack of rest.

"I'm sensing that part of the reason you don't want to talk to Kate right now is because you are afraid of the answers she might give you. That things might not go your way? But can you see how that might hold you both back, keep you in an uncomfortable limbo?"

Castle shrugs.

"Perhaps if I asked Kate along to our next session we could all sit down, the three of us, giving you a chance to talk things over in a safe, neutral environment without any distractions or interruptions. How does that sound?"

"Good in theory. But like I said to Kate right before I proposed, I've had to scratch and claw for every inch she's given me over the last five years, Doc. Why should now be any different?"

"And yet you still proposed," points out Burke.

He lets this statement sit quietly in the air for a couple of seconds so that the truth of it can sink in.

"I love her. I thought that was enough."

"And now you don't?"

"Now I…now I don't know what to think."

"So maybe asking Kate to join us is not the worst idea. You need clarity in order to plan a way forward, Rick. But I will only make the call if you are comfortable with the idea."

Castle takes a deep breath.

"If she's willing to come, I guess I should be willing to listen."

"Great. Then I will set that up, and hopefully, if she's free tomorrow, we can begin making some progress on the relationship front, since that was where your initial concerns lay when you first came to me."

Castle sinks back into the armchair, trying to imagine how facing Kate and talking their problems through might look. Will she be open? She seems eager to talk, and her letter was pretty honest if he takes her words at face value. But then there's Tyson to complicate matters. His letter, his words and what that means for their future. Anger surges up inside of him again as a picture of Tyson's grinning face surfaces in front of his eyes. It flickers, like a satellite signal breaking up, and then the image fades as the red mist passes a few seconds later leaving him feeling rung-out and exhausted.

"Now, have you been experiencing any flashbacks at all? Any night terrors, feeling anxious…" he vaguely hears Carter Burke ask him.

* * *

Castle leaves his session with Dr. Burke and makes his way to a tiny basement bar on Warren Street, between Greenwich and West Broadway.

He pushes open the glass door and a bell tinkles. It's dark inside, dark and quaint and the air is musty; the smell of stale beer, home cooking and sweat mingling together to thicken the atmosphere. Under any other circumstance, it's the kind of old, historic, characterful bar Castle would normally love. But since Tyson, it seems all his old loves have lost their burnished blush, their natural appeal and curiosity for him. There are times when he feels as if he is grieving a death, but for the life of him he's unable to remember who died.

His guy is sitting at the far end of the bar, back hunched as he hovers over a Scotch and a copy of the N.Y. Post.

"Can you believe these guys?" he asks Castle, without lifting his head from the newspaper. "Mayoral hopefuls and they're squabbling over stray cats in the subway. Let's just bet on a couple of roaches climbing a wall to decide who makes Mayor. We tolerate stupidity and mediocrity left and right these days, and then they wonder why the country's going to the dogs."

"Good to see you're in a happy mood today, Harry," says Castle, shaking the man's hand and clapping him on the back.

"You lost weight, Ricky? That woman of yours working you out good?" he chortles, suggestively, as Castle sits down on the stool next to him.

"Something like that," mutters Castle, keeping his answer deliberately vague.

He holds two fingers up to the barman and then points to Harry Sullivan's glass. The barman sets them up with a couple of Scotches and then moves away to give them some privacy, polishing glasses and slicing limes down the far end of the long, scarred bar.

"So? What do ya need?" asks Harry, as soon as they are alone. "Sounded kinda urgent."

Castle pulls an envelope out of his jacket and slides it along the bar towards Harry.

"All recent and previous addresses, property and tax records, drivers licenses, cell phone numbers etc. for these two sisters. And I need you to run a check on an alias for me."

"Whose alias?"

"Escaped con by the name of Jerry Tyson. He's been using the name Eric Winters recently, working for a car service called Select Cars. I need you to find out if it's still active, if he's still using it to get around."

"Escaped for how long?"

"Few years," says Castle, shaking his head. "What does that matter? Can you track him down or not?"

"He's managed to evade the cops for a few years ain't no way he's still using an alias _you_ know about, that's for sure. No offense, Ricky," he adds, patting Castle's arm.

"None taken."

"What about your lady friend? The cop? She not help you with this?" asks Harry Sullivan.

"Trying to talk yourself out of a job there, Harry. Not like you."

"Just curious."

"Let's just say I'm running a little parallel investigation of my own."

Harry tuts, shakes his head, and then turns to smile at Castle, his grin fatherly and indulgent.

"Trust is the key to a good relationship, my friend. Secrets are the fastest way to sour one. Married thirty-five years this December," he adds proudly.

"I'll be sure and send you a card," says Castle, his patience growing thin after his time spent with Burke, staring at his own relationship failings. "Now, do I need to take this somewhere else?"

"It'll cost you if you need it fast."

"Money's in the envelope. Should be more than enough in there to cover your expenses. Let me know if you need more."

Harry Sullivan tucks the envelope inside his jacket and then he sips his Scotch, pensively.

"So, you think you can help me or not?" asks Castle, anxious to get an answer and then get the hell out of there.

"What he do, this guy?"

"You don't want to know. The women…they could be with him and they could be in danger. So, I need this stuff like yesterday, Harry."

"Leave it with me. I'll call as soon as I have something."

Castle drinks his Scotch down in one go; tipping his head all the way back. The instant burn down his throat is cathartic, but seconds later it curdles his stomach; the flare of acidic liquor mixing poorly with the milkshake he had with lunch.

"Who's your friend?" asks Harry, tipping his head slightly towards the door.

"Just a temporary inconvenience," assures Castle, pulling a few notes from his wallet and throwing them down on the bar.

"Make him stand outside next time. I'm allergic to strangers. Especially the tin-carrying kind."

"There won't be a next time," Castle assures him. "Just get me the information I asked for and then call me. I'll take it from there."

* * *

Martha and Kate are sitting in the kitchen chatting quietly, their heads close together, when Castle finally arrives home a few minutes after nine.

"Where on earth have you been?" exclaims Martha, jumping down from her stool and hurrying over to greet him, worry etched into every line on her face.

Castle takes off his coat and hangs it in the hall closet and then he turns to face his frightened looking mother.

"I stopped off for a couple of beers at the Old Haunt."

"You went out _drinking?_ Richard what the hell were you thinking?" she exclaims, turning round to look at Kate, clearly hoping for some backup.

But no way is Kate getting in the middle of this little mother-son dramatic tableau. She's in enough trouble of her own with Castle as it is.

"You know what, mother? I was thinking that after a second visit to my _shrink _inside two days, it might be nice just to sample a little normality for myself. See the guys, shoot the breeze, cut loose for a change what with all the time I've spent hanging out with a serial killer recently," he tells her, sarcastically.

"Richard!" exclaims a shocked Martha, surprised by the vitriol in his voice.

He brushes past his mother, annoyed with her and with himself, since there was no '_seeing the guys'_ or '_shooting the breeze_'. Just a few maudlin, solitary drinks with the dullest cop on earth sat right next to him eating peanuts and drinking cranberry juice - no stories to share, no sense of humor, until finally Castle felt more depressed and even more sober than when he came in, and they left to come home.

Martha's eyes glitter with unshed tears, and she looks at Kate, her expression begging for her to have a word with him. Kate nods once at Martha to reassure her, and she quickly says goodnight and makes her way slowly upstairs.

* * *

"You don't think you were maybe a little hard on her?" Kate asks, quietly.

Castle has slumped down onto the sofa, the TV remote in his hand as he channel surfs with the volume on mute.

"She was worried. We both were," admits Kate, biting her lip, hoping he won't explode at her too.

She comes to a stop a few feet in front of him, waiting for some kind of a response. She's wearing sweats and an old t-shirt of Castle's she long since appropriated for herself. He finally looks up at her and then he finally seems to see her.

"Your phone was switched off, Castle. And I didn't want to embarrass you by calling Torres. But you can't…" she shakes her head. "Not right now."

"Not right now?" he asks, raising his voice slightly, looking as if he's spoiling for a fight.

"You know what I'm saying. Don't…I'm too tired to fight with you tonight."

"I have _Officer Dibble*_ on my ass everywhere I go, Kate. A cop! How is _that_ fair?" he demands.

"_Really? _You're asking _me_ that?" Kate says, dryly. "What happened to your sense of irony here, Castle?"

"Maybe Tyson stole that too," he quips, bitterly, sulking.

They stare at one another for a whole minute, until the ridiculousness of their argument and the irony of Castle complaining about having a cop following him around when he forced himself on Kate for years makes them both start to laugh. And they laugh and laugh until she's doubled over with her hands on her thighs and Castle is slumped down in the far corner of the cushions, his stomach aching and his eyes stinging.

Kate finally flops down on the opposite end of the sofa, drawing her knees up to her chest, exhausted but at least a little happier.

* * *

"You should apologize to your mom," she tells him, pulling his t-shirt down over her knees.

"Tomorrow," he promises, nodding. "How was your day?"

"Dull. Unproductive. We're still untangling the Calman sisters. How'd you go with Burke?"

"Uh, fine. Did he…?"

"Yeah. He called me," she nods, sitting up straighter. "We're on for tomorrow at midday if that's okay? I cleared the time with Gates. Told her I needed a session after everything that's been going on. Don't worry. She doesn't know you're seeing Burke. No one does."

"Thanks. Appreciate that."

"So. You think you're ready to talk?" asks Kate, watching the way the light hits his face, the craggy and the smooth, the light and shade.

She wants to touch his features, close her eyes and memorize them, run her fingers over his lips, down his nose, skim the papery-soft skin on the lids of his eyes and the width of his brow with her fingertips like she used to.

"I'm willing to try," he tells her, glancing in her direction.

"Good," she nods, satisfied with his answer.

They sit in silence for a couple more minutes, the television a dancing, flickering distraction on the far wall.

"Right. I think I'll call it a night," says Kate, gathering herself to get up off the sofa.

Castle wants her to stay, wants her to keep him company, only he can't find the words to ask.

He's on the verge of saying something when she adds, "Oh, I moved some stuff upstairs so I won't disturb you in the morning."

His heart feels like it just landed up at the pit of his stomach, rock hard and heavy. She might be living under his roof, but she's already moving further away from him, day by day.

"You…? There was no need," he stumbles out.

"I'll be up at five-thirty, gone by six. You need to sleep," she smiles, and taken at face value she's just looking out for him. But that is not what Castle hears and it's not what it feels like.

"Kate, how can we possibly…"

He pauses, sits up, leans forward, his gaze trained on the smooth surface of the coffee table.

"What? How can we what?" she gently prompts him, sitting down beside him once more.

"I just…I can't…" he shakes his head, lost for words.

"We're going at your pace here," she promises. "Just because I moved some clothes for work the next day and…and my cosmetics purse upstairs doesn't mean…it doesn't mean that we're any further apart than we were, okay?" she says, softly.

"Fine," he whispers, staring at the floor.

"Castle, I meant what I said in my letter. When I wrote it, I promised myself I would give it to you. I've done that now. And I know they might just seem like empty words to you…but I fully intend backing them up with actions, if you'll let me."

"How do we even begin doing that?" he asks, suddenly staring over at her, his face strained, eyes pained.

"Midday tomorrow, we talk. We let Burke help us figure out how to say what needs to be said. It's a giant unraveling, Castle, I know that. And you have a head start on me. Words are your forte. But I want to try and fix the mess I've made. Surely that has to count for something?"

"I know you're trying here, Kate. But wanting to change and actually changing are two different things," he points out, flatly.

"Spoken like a true shrink," mutters Kate. "You don't believe that I can change? You're not even giving me a chance," she complains.

"I am. We're seeing Burke. Isn't that enough?"

"It is if you go with an open mind. But right now it sounds as if you've already written me off."

"If I'd written you off you wouldn't be staying here. And we wouldn't even be having this conversation."

Kate nods, accepting his point.

"I'm going up to bed. Like I said, I have an early start," she adds, feeling all the progress she thought they'd made at lunch draining away. It's dispiriting, and she hopes his mood is only temporarily lowered by whatever alcohol he consumed tonight.

"Gates got you trawling through phone records and bank statements?" he asks, fishing shamelessly for information, hoping he doesn't sound too obvious.

"No. We're getting a warrant for an old workshop over on Mott Street. A property owned by the girls' grandfather. Making an early house call with SWAT if the paperwork comes through in time."

"Kind of public for a hide out," suggests Castle.

"Jordan's driving this one," shrugs Kate. "I told her the apartment on Delancey was more his style. Locked tight, secure, good vantage points. But I think she likes the idea of a shootout amongst the industrial brutalism of a stonemason's yard. Something to do with all those headstones and creepy statues, I think," she smiles, tiredly.

"Why not hit both?" asks Castle, out of curiosity.

"There was another armed robbery in Hell's Kitchen today. Third one this week."

"Saw it on the news."

"Yeah, well, the owner refused to hand over the cash from the register this time, so the guy used his gun. Hit a little boy with a stray bullet. Paralyzed from the waist down, they think."

"Jeez," mutters Castle. "But what does that have to do with your case? I don't understand."

"Manpower's been diverted. Orders from the top. They're worried it'll scare away the tourists, I guess."

"And having a violent serial killer on the loose? That's a selling point, is it?" asks Castle, bitterly.

"I'm sorry. It's all about resources, as usual. But we'll find him eventually, Castle. Don't worry," she says, standing up.

Castle doesn't say anything until Kate speaks again.

"Don't stay up too late," she says, backing away.

"Sorry I scared you earlier," he admits, giving her a quick, conciliatory smile.

"Don't tell me. Tell your mom. See you at Burke's office at noon then?"

"Yeah," he nods. "See you there. Sleep well."

* * *

He watches her walk away from him, quickly climbing the stairs, and then he pulls his cell phone out of his pocket.

"Harry? I need you to get me what you can on two properties. One on Mott Street and one on Delancey."

Castle pauses while Harry Sullivan catches up with his rapid-fire instructions.

"Mott Street's a workshop. A…a stonemason's yard of some kind. The other one's an apartment. Both are connected to the Calman family."

He waits while Harry makes some notes.

"I need addresses by morning, Harry. No excuses. Tell your boy genius I'll pay double this time."

He gets up from the sofa on creaking joints, his body suddenly feeling worn and ancient; the days spent sitting on Kate's bathroom floor, the beatings, the lack of sleep, the poor diet…all of it catching up with him, and he wanders into his office.

The giant screen sits like an unseeing eye behind his desk. He picks up the remote, presses it once and the electronic murder board flickers into life: an empty, blank, bright blue rectangle waiting to be filled up.

He sits down at his computer and beings to plot it out – what he knows, what he needs to know, the questions he hopes to have answers to tomorrow. He works the angles like any other case – mixing hypotheticals with known facts until a plausible storyline emerges.

And then he sits back and thinks. He thinks about all that he has and by extension all that he has to lose – his career, his success, the money that's brought him, the publicity and acclaim. And he thinks about his mother and daughter: the joy his child's successes and achievements have added to his life, the unique way she has of lifting him when everything else looks bleak, her goodness and innocence.

And then he turns his thoughts to Kate. Somehow having her here in his home highlights the gulf that has opened up between them. They no longer share a bed, they pass like acquaintances in his kitchen, making small talk, feeling estranged. But she has nowhere else to go, and would having her live somewhere else even be helpful to him? Is that what he wants? He can't say.

He wants their old life back: that is all he is sure of. He would forgive so much, if only he could find reason to smile, and laugh, and joke, and imagine, and let himself feel again, let himself love again. He wants the anger gone, this bitter seam of sarcasm he's been mining recently, turning his frustration and fear on his aging mother for some reason. He wants to go back to being the happy-go-lucky guy, the irritating goofball who could joke with the guys, drive Beckett nuts and upset the Captain all in the space of five minutes. He wants to be _that guy_ again more than anything.

But first there is this: the evil impediment – Jerry Tyson - the roadblock to his future happiness and that of his entire family. He is a threat that must be eliminated. He is a blight on the city, on women, a mockery to the justice system and Castle's own in-built sense of fairness.

He looks at the screen once more, adds a short list of potential outcomes to his mocked-up scenario, and then he switches the whole system off. It goes dark, instantly, but that darkness fills him with a sense of purpose, possibility, and a frisson of excitement at the thrill of finally being free.

He rises from his desk, walks into the darkened bedroom, closing the door quietly behind him, and begins to undress.

* * *

_A/N: Thank you to blueorchid96 for reading my half-finished drafts and for reminding me that Castle owned a murder board once upon a time. Love to hear your thoughts. Liv_


	30. Chapter 30 - Expect The Unexpected

_A/N: This chapter is subject to a ratings change. That means some of the content is not suitable for reading at work - offices, classrooms, in front of kindergarteners, teenagers etc. __Y'all know who you are! ;) _Maybe the ladies' bathrooms if you're desperate - a la page 105 - or the gents obviously, if you're, you know...a man. Anyway, enjoy! 

* * *

**__****Chapter 30: Expect The Unexpected**

The clock flicks over to 3am and Castle rolls onto his side to check the time. He winces at the digital display, eyes blurry with tiredness, and then he growls in frustration, still wide-awake, his legs jumpy and restless, his whole body fizzing with unexpended energy despite his mind being exhausted. Yet somehow he is still unable to shut down.

He sits up a little, thumping his pillows into shape, and then he flicks on the lamp by the bed. Kate's side seems wide and empty and cold without her next to him. Over three months since she's been gone from his life, since they shared a bed, and yet still he is no closer to getting used to the change; to her absence.

It's killing him not having her here beside him. And it's killing him to keep pushing her away.

He stretches over to slide open the top drawer of his nightstand. Kate's letter is inside. He lifts it out, unfolds the now slightly worn page, smoothing the creases as he goes, and then he begins to read her words again.

* * *

_Castle,_

_This is not what I expected to be doing when I got up this morning and went in to work to begin another day of tedious routine. As I write to you now, I'm on a flight bound for home with your recent letter sitting unopened in front of me, feeling nothing but shame and a deep regret. But also fear._

_You are currently missing, taken, Javi tells me, by Jerry Tyson. You were right and I was wrong. I'm so sorry I didn't listen to you when you said he was still out there. I'm sorry for a lot of things. But then that seems to be the way with us, with me…_

_Words are your thing, but I find myself needing them now more than ever. Your professional success relies on finding the right ones. I feel as if my future, __our__ future, depends on me finding the right words for you now. How do you put your heart on a blank page when you've made as many mistakes as I have and still make it mean something?_

_Being here, looking out at the clouds, reminds me of another flight, after you followed me out to L.A.. You slept on the journey home in the seat next to mine. We had shared a moment alone at the hotel during our stay, when you told me you thought I was a mystery you were never going to solve. Sometimes I feel as if we are still working on that mystery together, Castle. I don't always understand my own mind, my motivations, and I wish I knew what I was so afraid of. Failing is the only answer I can come up with, since I've faced down so many other fears in my life. But I never wanted to fail you, and now I fear that I have._

_On that flight back from L.A., I finally finished reading a letter Mike Royce wrote to me before he died. In it he said that it was clear you and I had something real, but that I was fighting it. He also said that putting the job ahead of your heart was a mistake, Castle. For Mike, that was pretty intuitive. But the section of his letter that stuck with me most, were the words he finished with. He said: __"Risking our hearts is why we're alive. The last thing you want is to look back on your life and wonder if only." Sadly, I didn't listen to him either._

_As you know, it took me a long time after that, and a lot of pain on both our parts, to stop fighting the thing between us that so many other people seemed to see long before we did. That was mistake number one – wasting so much precious time living without you._

_Mistake number two, though I'm sure you could argue there have been many more in between, was putting this job, or any job, ahead of us. The last few months without you have been torture. All of my own making, I know. This self-imposed exile did not make me function better, nor did it give me time to adapt to a new environment, a new city, a new way of working, as I originally hoped it would. In truth, it hollowed me out, killed my joy, wiped the smile off my face, dimmed the light in my eyes, and tore at my heart every time I caught sight of your picture on my nightstand or saw your number in my phone. I've been in mourning these past months, Castle, in a city where I knew no one and where nobody cared. And for the life of me I cannot explain why I've been doing that, what point I've been trying to prove to myself or to you._

_Before I left, you offered me everything - a chance to be the professional I dreamed of, while having you by my side - and I threw it back in your face. You followed me around for five years, dedicated so much of your time to my life and my job at the expense of your own writing career, even your family. It felt wrong of me to ask you to move cities while I took a job that would leave me little time for anything else, at least in the beginning. But I now realize how misguided that decision was on so many levels. I should have taken on everything, been bolder, tried harder, asked more of you and of myself, grabbed ahold with both hands and found a way to make it work. But instead I ran. And for that I am truly sorry. I can't imagine how deeply hurt you must be feeling right now, how little faith and trust you must have left in me._

_I don't know if you can ever forgive me for making such selfish choices, for lying to you and shutting you out. You have shown yourself to be a deeply forgiving man in the past, and I'm holding onto that thought as I fly home to fight for you, and for us, so that I can finally seize that chance to risk my heart._

_I will find you, of that you can be certain. If you're reading this letter, it means I have succeeded. What comes after that is up to you. If you still want me, I am yours, unreservedly. I want to make a life with you, to build something. I want us to leave a legacy behind. I want forever with you, Castle, if you'll have me, because I love you and I for one do not want to go on any longer wondering 'if only'._

_Always,_

_Kate xx_

* * *

When he finishes, he sets the page aside on his nightstand and lies back against the headboard to think; to mull her words over once more.

It's not enough. It's not nearly enough. But coming from Kate Beckett it's one hell of a start – her honesty, a clear recognition of her mistakes and failings, admitting the damage her own choices have done to both of them, and showing a willingness to change. She can't run home to him because she's failing where she is, in a job she thought she wanted more than she wanted him. He can't be her back-up plan. Not ever. But then that's not what she was doing when she came home to New York. She came back because he needed her, because he was in danger. And he sees that fact more clearly as the dust settles. It might be late in the day, but when the chips were down, she chose him.

What comes next is what counts – her intentions, her plans. They need to talk about those. He needs assurances, but he also needs other things too…

* * *

Castle throws back the covers, swings his feet to the floor. Being in bed feels claustrophobic all of a sudden: the empty, loveless, lonely space too confining to contain his nervous energy. He paces the bedroom floor a couple of times, trying to get his mind to do something productive, all the feelings and emotions whipped up by re-reading Kate's letter sending him spinning like a top towards some kind of crazy, optimistic euphoria that even his exhaustion can't tame.

He wanders out into the darkness of his office, thinks about turning on the murder board, working some more on an idea that's been bugging him since lunch. But then he hears something, or thinks he does: a noise somewhere out in the larger living space that filters through the gaps in the bookcase and down the narrow hall from the small conservatory area.

The ambient light shining in from the city outside illuminates the leather armchair a yellowish-grey. They are in the dead hours - the hours of deepest darkness that nestle between the gloam of twilight and the early blush of dawn.

The hours when all good children should be fast asleep. The hours when those with evil in their hearts attempt to do their worst.

Kate is sitting curled up in the armchair near the long window, her face and body turned away from him, her entire frame cast in silhouette. But he would know her anywhere. He thinks he's being so quiet, walking on catlike feet until he reaches a vantage point from where he can covertly observe her. She has a throw over her legs and stomach, and he wonders for several quiet seconds if she perhaps fell asleep down here. But then she wriggles in the chair, huddling further under the blanket, drawing the caramel colored mohair up towards her chin, and he can't help himself. He steps on the creaky board - the one Alexis used to bounce on when she was five years old. He can still picture her dancing up and down, wearing a tiny plaid skirt, skinny braids, wrinkled white tights and red patent Mary Janes, as she swore to him that the creaky board talked back to her in a language only she could understand. He spent weeks meaning to get it fixed, but then he's a sentimental soul, so he's been stepping around it for years now; they all have.

Until now…

* * *

Kate stiffens in the chair, and he sees her listening for a repeat of the sound she just heard - her head cocked to one side, her whole being on alert - before slowly, slowly, she turns around, her fingers tightening on the leather-covered arms, knuckles turning a blanched, bloodless white.

"Oh, God, Castle! I thought you were an intruder," she breathes out, with a shaky sigh of relief, a ghost of a laugh mingled in with the sudden release of air from her lungs.

They're all living on their last nerve, he realizes, even with a cop stationed downstairs twenty-four seven. This case, his abduction, their estrangement – all of it taking such a terrible toll on all of them, his family included; pulling them further away from one another at a time when they should be closest.

Tyson is winning.

"Can't sleep?" she asks him, throwing the blanket off her lap so that she can stand up.

He watches as she unfurls her long limbs and then stretches, her shorts and camisole leaving little to the imagination, especially one as well developed and well informed as his. It's dark, but not so dark that he can't see what little light there is highlighting her naked arms and legs in cool, violet tones. He's staring, _blatantly_, but for the life of him he can't help it; can't seem to drag his gaze away from her.

When she next speaks, she's right in front of him, several inches shorter, but right there in front of him, her presence so powerful that he'd swear she was ten feet tall.

"Rick," she says gently, touching his arm with cool fingertips to get his attention, since he's a little out of it apparently. "Have you slept at all?" she asks, her eyes glittering like black sapphires in the near-darkness, her face radiating concern for him.

Castle slowly shakes his head.

"Come on. You must be exhausted. Back to bed," she says, taking his elbow and bodily turning him round.

When he digs his heels in, she stumbles, bumping into his back, reflexively planting her hands on his hips to stop herself from fully crashing into his body.

He half-turns, rooting around by his side until he finds her hand and then he clasps it in his own.

When he tugs lightly to get her to follow him, something inside both of them cracks, fissures opening up in their carefully maintained outer shells; the shells that have been keeping them apart. And it's as if their immediate future has been predetermined by that one, tiny gesture of courage and intention. This might not end well, this might be a huge mistake, given where they are, but if it's a mistake they both make willingly, can that really be called a mistake at all?

Castle tugs again, gently, and she plants her face against the back of his arm, rubs her cheek and nose across his t-shirt-covered shoulder blade and sighs. She has two and a half hours until she has to get up. But she wasn't sleeping anyway; haunting Castle's loft like Lady Macbeth until the sun could rise and chase some of her own demons away.

"Come on. _Bed_," she whispers against the warm cotton, smoothing her free hand down his spine, her heart already pounding, blood thumping in her ears as Castle's hand tightens around hers, and he leads her back along the hallway to his room.

* * *

Kate lets go of his hand as soon as they cross the threshold. The bed is half slept in: the covers on his side thrown back, rumpled by his fruitless attempt to sleep, while her side remains pristine and undisturbed.

She heads straight over to Castle's side of the bed, intent on plumping his pillows and straightening out the twisted sheets so that he can get back inside and lie down, when she sees her letter lying on his nightstand - the page unfolded, the paper smoothed flat.

She whirls around to look for him, finding him standing closer to her than before, near the bottom of the bed, watching.

They look at one another, so much tension in the air, the atmosphere all but crackling with it; like the sulfurous, ozone-filled aftermath of a storm. Kate's heart is hammering, her breathing becoming rapid and shallow, her palms begin to sweat and her skin tingles and burns, her spine arcing with energy that races up and down from her scalp to the backs of her knees, tingling like a livewire.

She waits for him. This has to be all about him now. Not what she wants or needs for a change. But what Castle chooses for himself.

He takes a step towards her, and, as if an invisible thread connects them, she finds herself doing the same. When they are standing but a foot apart, she reaches out her hands, smoothing them up his forearms, relishing the sensation of muscle, smooth skin and fine hair beneath her palms, and then she cups his elbows.

He mirrors her, holding onto the backs of her arms, as he looks down at her, his gaze never wavering from her face for a second.

"How about if I lie beside you?" she offers, her whole body burning up with need for him, while she tries to do the right thing for a change; tamping down long suppressed feelings, trying to unknot the twist of desire in her gut so that she can take care of him in the right way tonight. "Maybe we can get a few hours? Hmm?" she suggests, giving him a gentle smile.

He barely nods, but then her name is on his lips, ripped from his throat in one ragged, plaintive growl as soon as she turns away from him.

"_Kate_," he pleads, just as she is swallowing down her own need for him to turn back towards the bed and begin folding down the sheets.

She spins back around, her face displaying the deep concern that his sorrowful tone immediately rips from her heart.

"Castle, what's wro—?"

* * *

When his mouth finds hers, she whimpers instantly. A short sobbing sound emanates from her throat and his scorching touch has her rapidly sucking air in and out through her nostrils in shock, while her hands scrabble to find the back of his t-shirt, and then she clings onto him.

He tears at her mouth like a man possessed, roughly forcing his tongue inside, before rapidly moving to her cheek and then her jaw and finally her throat; his lips and teeth scorching a path as he rushes to consume her, panting. He licks behind one ear and then sucks her lobe into his mouth, pulsing the sensitive flesh between the hard palate on the roof of his mouth and the soft, warm wetness of his tongue. And she mewls, her nails digging into his back through his shirt.

Kate's head is spinning and her body is on fire. Jolts of painful, sharp electricity spike low in her belly with every intimate, invasive touch. She writhes feverishly with him, throwing her head back to give him more access to her neck, groans aloud when he palms one of her breasts through the thin cotton of her cami, pinching her erect nipple hard between his thumb and forefinger forcing her to grab fistfuls of his shirt just to keep herself upright as he continues his zealous, possessive assault on her body.

Kate wants this – wants _him_ – so badly. They've been apart for so long, no one has touched her in months, her body and its latent desire have remained a slumbering thing that even she couldn't find the energy to wake up. And so now she is teetering on the most wonderful precipice, more than ready to let go and fly…if it weren't for the blind, lust-driven, bloodthirsty haze Castle seems to be in.

She wants them both to want this. But she also needs them both to be equal partners in any coupling: both fully conscious and aware of what they are doing and the consequences and meaning it will have for them when it's over.

Suddenly, she feels the hardness of his erection against her stomach when he pulls her against him and slips his hand down the back of her shorts, cupping her ass hard, stroking his forefinger down between her cheeks, brushing over the sensitive, intimate space between.

"Oh, God!" she gasps, her open mouth pressed to his collarbone, her arms wrapped around his back.

The breathy words escape her lips in a dizzying, head-spinning rush, and Castle obviously takes this as a sound of encouragement, since the next thing she feels are her shorts being tugged down her legs, cold air hitting the wetness of her own arousal where it pools at the apex of her thighs.

Castle bends to pull her shorts all the way off, dragging the stretchy fabric down over her thighs, crouching in front of her finally as he does so. Her head is still spinning and she feels as if she can't suck in enough oxygen to satisfy her burning lungs. She can see what he's about to do, watches, transfixed by anticipatory pleasure as he palms the back of her right thigh, splaying his fingers wide to cup the cheek of her buttock, and then he nudges her feet wider apart with his elbow at her knee to get her to spread her legs for him, before he slips two fingers in between her swollen, slippery folds.

Kate shudders bodily, back arching, her whole being singing out when he finally touches her. She can't stop now, not if she wanted to. It's too good, too right, she needs this far too badly, and when she lets out another whispered curse followed by a high pitched whine, so close to ecstasy, Castle stops what he's doing to look up at her, and she sees then in his clear-eyed stare that he needs this just as badly as she does. And that was all she needed to know.

* * *

But it's not enough to give in to his touch, to let him stroke and tease and work her to the certain, shattering bliss that she knows is mere seconds away. No, she knows all too well the emptiness that will slink in behind if she allows that to be the first encounter they share in months. So she pulls away from him, angling her hips back so that he is forced to withdraw; the rasp of the ridges on his fingers over her sensitized flesh almost all the friction she needs to send her shattering. But she bites down on her frayed nerves, clinging tightly to the last vestiges of her own self-control as she reaches for him.

He looks confused, and maybe even a little hurt, by this sudden interruption. He immediately rushes to apologize, stepping back from her as if coming to his senses, a wounded, stony dullness in his eyes. But Kate steps in closer, takes hold of his arm, her other hand finding purchase on his hip as she draws him back towards her, embracing him while he literally shakes in her arms. His need for her is so palpable. The energy it's taking for him to hold himself back is consuming him, more than he has left in his severely depleted reserves. She kisses his neck, reaches up on tiptoe to press her lips to his jaw.

"Shhh," she whispers, finally brushing her lips over his. "Castle, it's okay," she assures him, kissing him over and over - tiny soft presses of her lips against his, until finally he opens his mouth to her, moaning gutturally when she slides her tongue between his lips to tangle gently with his own, tasting him.

Pure, sweet bliss.

She drops her hands from his body, their mouths still joined, engaged in a delightfully slow, sensual dance, and she seeks out his hands, lacing them together, their fingers spread wide as she leans her body fully against his.

"I'm sorry," he chokes out, pulling back, burying his face in her neck.

Kate lets go of his hand to cup the back of his head, threading her fingers through his hair, her other arm encircling his waist, as she holds him.

"Rick?" she whispers, kissing the nape of his neck, flicking her tongue into the smooth, pale hollow his barber tidied up for him just the day before.

He rubs his cheek over her shoulder and across her clavicle before he looks at her again; as if he's on the point of savoring her before letting her go for good.

"I need you," she tells him earnestly, touching his chin with her thumb, stroking it over and over, as she watches clouds of doubt, pain and uncertainty pass over his eyes. "I want this, I do," she promises. "But only if you want it too."

He presses his forehead against hers, still breathing heavily through his nose; so damaged and broken that it's painful to witness.

"Do you want this?" she prompts, gently, stroking his ear with her thumb, her fingers curled behind his newly defined jawbone.

When he kisses her instead of answering aloud, she feels the damp presence of tears on his cheeks, the moisture quickly absorbed between them.

"Oh, God. Please, let me touch you?" she whispers, needing to make them both whole again, needing to banish all memory of Tyson from their lives.

She palms his erection through his underwear, thrilling when he presses himself against her, gripping onto her hip to hold her firmly against him, his breath catching in his throat. Kate's heart floods with relief that he isn't pushing her away.

"Let me love you, Castle?" she asks, kissing his closed eyelids, brushing her lips over the tip of his nose, rubbing her cheek against his. "Please?"

* * *

Fear is the only thing holding him back now, but his desperate desire for her is overwhelming even that. He doesn't answer. Instead, he hooks his fingers under the thin straps of her camisole and drags them down her arms, freeing her breasts to the cool night air and, swiftly, his own greedy mouth. Kate cradles him against her body while he suckles one breast, then the other, flicking and nipping at her stiffened nipples, blowing cold air on their puckered perfection, before he moves lower to press a row of reverent kisses down the midline of her stomach.

She palms the back of his head, carding her fingers through his hair, smoothing her hand over his shoulder, the bunched muscles of his back, and somehow he knows that she wants him to look up at her.

"Come to bed?" she whispers, shedding the shirt from around her waist, so that she finally stands naked in front him.

Castle looks awe-struck, rooted to the spot with an expression that falls somewhere between petrified and amazed.

Kate tugs on his hand, drawing him back, closer to the bed, and then she turns him around until he is forced to stop with the backs of his thighs pressed up against the edge of the mattress. She slips her fingers under the hem of his soft t-shirt, glances up at him for permission, and then lifts the shirt up over his head when he makes no move to protest. Once his torso is bare, she sees the extent of his bruises for the first time, valiantly attempting to keep the sorrow and horror from her eyes. But he sees instantly, that first flash of naked shock, closely followed by a spike of righteous anger.

He kisses her passionately, chasing away the pain for both of them, his soft lips pressed to hers, moving gently, sipping and sighing until she lets her shoulders drop, lets her whole body relax under his warm hands and loving mouth.

Kate finally dips her fingers into the waistband of his boxer shorts. But Castle catches her wrist, and for an uncomfortable second she thinks he's going to stop her. But he simply removes her hand and then steps out of his underwear by himself, putting them both on an even par: finally naked, fully exposed to one another.

They stand quietly facing each other - two people who were very much in love, now two broken, damaged souls who want so much to regain what they've lost, but have yet to find the words or a way to do it.

* * *

Kate lifts one hand, touches her fingers to Castle's chest, letting the pads of her left hand trace the smooth outline of his pectoral muscles. Then she reaches for his left hand with her right, drawing it towards her own body until he moves of his own accord, touching her in a mirror image of the way she's touching him.

The effect is dizzying and deeply emotional: their chests rise and fall in sync, a warm blush spreading up over their flushing skin, rising up towards their collarbones, leaving their fingertips buzzing with energy as they work together to banish the shadow of Tyson from their memories.

Kate feels hot and the room swims a little, the effect of being touched by Castle after so long apart overwhelming her. Her heart thunders. But she craves more.

A gentle stilling of his hand, a press on both of his shoulders and he sits down heavily on the edge of the bed.

Kate crawls up over him, spreading her legs either side of his hips, while Castle watches her, entranced. Her neat breasts hang softly above him, her dark nipples brushing against his chest as she leans down to whisper in his ear.

"Scoot back a little," she asks, moving with him as he obediently moves further back towards the middle of the bed.

His erection rises between them with unsettling prowess. Kate licks her lips just watching it bob majestically above Castle's stomach. Her core aches, the head glistens in the lamplight, and she moves her eyes away from it to find his face, seeking out his fearful, wary gaze.

The sight of such pain and uncertainty in his eyes tears at her. She needs to fix the damage she has caused. Done with waiting, done with trying to play the long game here – to prove herself by catching Tyson - while they lose each other farther and faster amid all the time wasted in between.

"I won't hurt you," she promises, painting the whispered words against the damp skin of his neck, kissing his temple. "Never again."

* * *

Castle arches up off the bed when she wraps her hand around him, using her thumb to smear his own juices around the tip of his erection. But the act is largely unrequired, since she is more than ready for both of them.

"Please?" she whispers, looking to him for permission, not caring that even she can hear the begging tone in her voice.

Yet again, he doesn't answer her question, using actions instead of words to guide them tonight for reasons she doesn't quite understand. He contracts his abdominals, reaching his arms out towards her, and then he places his hands on her hips, wordlessly guiding her down on top of him.

The soft, fleshy head of his cock pushes at her entrance, dancing around the bony protection, skidding on her own oily lubrication for a second or two, before she grasps him with her hand, and guides him inside her body. When she sinks down onto him, she shudders, her entire frame shaking, a low moan of pleasure escaping her lips just as Castle groans aloud. She lets her head fall back, her thighs trembling, goose bumps rising where cool air brushes against the warm surface of her skin. The effect is almost spiritual.

Castle knows her body like no other man, has cared for her, loved her, worshiped and made sacrifices for her that no man ever has or ever will. This realization hits her anew, and when it does it shames her. All her talk of 'one and done', and she ignored it: the rarity and the rightness of this; of them. She finally allowed herself to open up to him over a year ago, she chased him down after driving him away, they started to make a life together and then she left…for a _job_?

His hands on her thighs are what end her torment, dragging her focus back to the present. The powerful, arousing sensation of Castle smoothing his palms up over her skin with such infinite care, before he cups her buttocks, drawing her forwards and down onto him at the same time as he slowly arches his hips upwards, driving his own body deeper into hers.

It feels perfect, being this close to pure ecstasy. She thinks she might be losing her mind.

They're both shaking, riding a knife-edge of desire, trying to hold back the aching need that threatens to end things shockingly quickly after so much time apart.

"Oh!" shudders Kate, grasping Castle's forearms to still him. "Oh, God!"

She manages to shake her head, rolling her hips at the same time, this slow undulation driving him crazy, the mixed messages she's sending out utterly confusing him.

"Stop?" he gasps, moving his own hips in a slow circle while he watches her, waiting for an answer, slowly breathing through his nose to control his own urge to just let go.

"No. Please. No way," she shakes her head, licking her parched, swollen lips. "I just…Oh God," she pants feverishly, her eyes sliding shut as she tips forward over his chest to begin rising and falling again and again, milking his body with her own.

"Kate?" he whispers, urging her look at him, his hands on her hips again, gripping her tightly.

"Mmm?" she murmurs, her hazy, unfocused eyes finding his troubled blue ones. "Not going to last," she tells him breathily, her shaky voice laced with apology.

"Thank god," mutters Castle, instant relief showing on his face.

"You too?" she laughs a little hysterically, and he nods vigorously.

* * *

When they climax together mere seconds later, Kate imagines she hears them both cry out - the sound of their release seeming far too loud in the pre-dawn silence of the loft. Her body flutters and spasms around his, her orgasm completely undoing her; whiting out her vision as she grinds herself against him, sucking out every last aching second of pleasure that she can from this unexpected miracle. Castle holds her firmly on top of him, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh of her buttock and the hardness of her spine where she lies splayed over his chest. They fan the last, flickering embers of their dying orgasm together.

Kate presses her face into his neck, and he feels the dampness of tears mingling with the perspiration on her skin. He turns his head slightly, kissing her forehead, his arms tightening around her back.

They lie like this for a minute or more, until the air conditioning clicks to life and cool air feathers across their damp skin, chilling it.

She's reluctant, but finally they wordlessly agree that she should move, and so Kate rolls off of him, sliding down onto the mattress beside him. They stare up at the ceiling, bodies barely touching, no words for now. Both exhausted, both confused, neither daring to hope that this means more than the other wants it to; both far too fearful of disappointment to dream that they might have found a way out of this nightmare they've become trapped inside.

* * *

When Kate shivers, Castle finally acts.

"Hey, don't get cold," he murmurs, getting out of bed to use the bathroom.

Kate gets up, her thighs aching, to straighten out the bed. When Castle comes back, she uses the bathroom herself, observing her flushed face in the mirror – the glow on her cheeks, the light in her eyes – and she allows herself the barest smile; a smile of hope. Then she puts her shorts and cami on and goes back out into the semi darkness of Castle's bedroom.

He's asleep, she can see instantly, and her chest floods with warm, heartfelt relief. His lamp is still illuminated, the light clearly showing the complete peace and relaxation in the muscles of his face. She's not sure what to do. Barely a few words have passed between them through their entire intimate encounter, and so she has no idea what it means, what he's thinking, where this goes next. One thing she is glad of is that he's finally getting the rest he so badly needs. So she crawls in beside him and attempts to get some sleep of her own.

She lies quietly on her side watching his chest rise and fall, worry still haunting her as she lets her mind drift back over the last hour of her life. His lack of words is what's bothering her most. For a man who makes his living from words, a man she can barely get to be quiet most of the time, his silence is troubling.

* * *

When she finally accepts that she will not find sleep, she gets out of bed and heads back upstairs to shower and dress for the day ahead.

Before she leaves for work, Kate writes a short note to leave on his pillow, not wanting him to wake up and think that she ran, or is ashamed or regrets for a second what they have just done.

The note reads:-

_Rick,_

_I hope you slept well. I'm sorry I couldn't be there when you woke up. I know that last night doesn't fix everything. I just want you to know how much it meant to me to be close to you again._

_I have to go into the Precinct now to check up on the warrant. But I'll call you to make sure you're still okay to meet with Dr. Burke today at ten. I really hope we can use that chance talk._

_I miss you so much,_

_Kate xx_

* * *

When Castle finally wakes up, the time is edging close to 8am. He swings out his arm across the mattress believing he's just surfaced from the most vivid, erotic dream. And when he finds the bed beside him empty and cold, he fears that he has. However, the languor in his limbs and the ache in his groin immediately tell a different story, and when he finds the folded note lying on Kate's pillow, he knows for sure that it wasn't a dream.

* * *

_A/N: Thoughts? Liv_


	31. Chapter 31 - Secrets And Lies

_A/N: Thank you for all the lovely reviews to the last chapter._

_Onwards..._

* * *

_**Chapter 31: Secrets And Lies**_

Castle is sitting in the kitchen having breakfast alone when the call comes in from Harry Sullivan.

"So, I got word back on your Tyson guy's most recent alias. Eric Winters? DMV license is a total fake. The social security number, name, date of birth…everything belongs to a baby boy born in Rockaway Beach, Queens in 1979. The real Eric Winters died aged three weeks, Ricky. That one's a bona fide dead end I'm afraid."

"What about the Calman sisters? Jessie and Sarah," asks Castle.

"You don't sound surprised by that piece of news," interrupts Sullivan.

"Nothing that guy does surprises me anymore," Castle tells him, bluntly. "What about the two properties we talked about?"

"Still waiting on some info from my contact at the city property register. There might be some stuff still in escrow. But I got a guy sitting on the stonemason's yard since last night. Place looks deserted. No lights, gate is padlocked, weeds growing everywhere…"

"So, no one has been in or out?" clarifies Castle.

"Until this morning."

"What happened this morning?"

"Little after six-thirty a whole bunch of your friends showed up."

"My friends?"

"Yeah. Boys and girls in blue. Showed up mob handed too. Busted the gate wide-open, tore that place apart for half an hour. SWAT, Fugitive Enforcement, CSU, bunch of Uniforms…the works. My guy nearly shit himself. They must want this Tyson guy bad."

"You have no idea," mutters Castle, under his breath. "What about Delancey Street? Did you get an actual address for me?"

"Yeah. Found an apartment at 210 Delancey. City tax records list it as registered to a Jessie Calman. Apartment 4C. Fourth floor walk-up situated above some dive of a café and a Korean-owned liquor store. Got a lovely view of the Williamsburg Bridge elevated ramp too. Traffic noise night and day. For sale by owner," jokes Sullivan.

"And? Anything else?"

"Eh…fire escape on the front of the building, entrance is around the corner in Pitt Street. Security lock on the communal door is busted."

"What about neighbors? Is the building overlooked?"

"Vacant lot behind and to the side is boarded off, pretty overgrown. Neighbors are like half a block away. Parking front and side. Good vantage point actually. Apartment's on a corner. No nosey Nellies to watch what you're up to. Even has roof access, though you'd have to be Spiderman to make it to the next building over."

"Good place to hide?"

"All in all, yeah. Pretty much the perfect spot for a city hideout if you ask me. Williamsburg is like five minutes away if he needed a quick escape route by car. And there's the Nassau Street and Jamaica lines if he wanted to use the subway."

"Seen any activity?"

"My guy took the Mott Street address first. He's grabbing a couple of hours and then he'll head over there. Make a polite enquiry about a suspected gas leak reported by a concerned citizen. I'll call you when I know something."

"Harry?" says Castle, before Sullivan can hang up.

"Yeah?"

"I don't want anybody taking this guy down or scaring him off. Understand? You find him, he's mine."

"What did this guy do to you?"

"I said he's _mine_. Do you hear me?" repeats Castle, more fiercely.

"Yeah. I hear ya. Just…don't go doing anything stupid, Ricky. I'll call you. Don't leave town, okay?" he mutters, ending the phone call with a short, phlegm-filled chuckle.

* * *

Castle goes into his office with a cup of coffee and sits down at his laptop. He updates the murder board with the new information Harry Sullivan just gave him and then he uses Google Earth to check out the location of the Delancey Street apartment for himself.

He's just about to move to Street View when his cell phone rings again and he has to run back into the kitchen to snatch it off the counter before he misses the call.

"_Castle!_" he yells breathlessly into the speaker, socked feet still skidding on the wooden floor as he glides alongside the counter, grabbing the edge to pull himself to a final stop.

There's a brief pause on the line before Kate's voice reaches his ear.

"Castle? Were you…are you out _running?_" she asks, her tone immediately full of warmth and mild amusement.

"Sorry. No. Just…just a short sprint from the office to the kitchen. Thought I'd get in some training for the four minute mile," he jokes, smiling when she laughs at the other end.

It is so good to hear her laugh again.

"Sounds like you need to put in a few more laps then," she grins, enjoying being able to tease him for a change after all the darkness they've faced recently.

"I do okay," he rebuts, his suggestive tone of voice adding meaning to his words that escapes neither of them.

Kate feels herself blushing, and she turns her back on the boys and Rachel, who are all gathered in a convenient little huddle nearby, listening in to her call, she's pretty sure.

"Yeah, you do," she tells him quietly, biting down on her lip to prevent herself from smiling too broadly and giving the game away.

"How'd it go this morning?" asks Castle, after a pregnant pause, speaking at the exact same time that Kate says, "So…you got some sleep?"

They both laugh awkwardly, and then Castle insists that Kate goes first, since her activities are more important than his, he tells her. He frowns to himself when he realizes that he might be revealing a little too much.

"How did you…?"

"The warrant," he adds, quickly. "Your note? You said you had to go in early to check on the warrant. I just…I wondered if you got anywhere," he says, covering for his own surfeit of information.

"Right," says Kate, and he hears her nod and then take a sip of coffee. "Big fat zero," she tells him, her frustration coming over in her voice. "Place hasn't been used in…God it could be years, Castle. Padlock on the gate was rusted up, weeds everywhere, the outbuildings had no power or water supply… No way he's hiding out there," says Kate, confirming what Castle already knows.

"What about the…the other place you mentioned," he probes. "Did you say Delancey Street?"

"_Someone's_ been paying attention," replies Kate, a little surprised and a lot impressed, since he has been giving off the appearance of drifting along in his own little world since she found him.

"At the risk of having you accuse me of not listening to you," he flirts slightly, to distract her from the suspicion he can hear in her voice, "I pay attention. _Always_."

The line goes silent on Kate's end, and she listens to Castle breathing.

"Last night," she all but whispers, walking away from the bullpen towards the stairs for privacy. "Well, this morning I suppose it was technically. Castle…"

"We both wanted it, Kate," he tells her, trying to reassure her that there is no fault, no blame, that they are in-step with one another.

But somehow his words fail - making light of what happened between them, reducing its significance somehow, as if it will be a one-time thing. As if she is over-thinking it.

"I…I know," she adds, her voice slightly strained, backpedaling. "I just thought…I'm sorry I couldn't be there when you woke up," she tells him, forcing herself not to retreat from this.

"I got your note," he replies, as if that is somehow enough for him now – the man who used to beg and cajole and sometimes steal and hide her underwear to get her to stay in bed with him.

"I meant what I said. I miss you. I still…Castle, do we have—"

"Kate, I have a call waiting," he interrupts, startling her. "It's Paula. I'm sorry, but I have to take it."

"Fine. Yeah. Sorry. Of course. I'll let you go," mumbles Kate, her hand pressed against her chest, feeling as if the wind has just been knocked out of her.

"Still on for Burke's at ten?" he asks, as he prepares to hang up.

"Eh...yeah," replies Kate, a little dazed. "See you there in an hour."

She hangs up the phone feeling deflated, the euphoria that swept her through the early start this morning and the pointless raid suddenly evaporating, leaving her exhausted.

* * *

"Do you really think _lying_ to her is the way to fix things?"

Castle's mother's voice cuts crystal clear across the living room, as Castle walks back into his office with Martha hot on his heels.

"Morning, mother," he says, dropping his phone down into the desk.

"There _was_ no call from Paula, am I right?" pursues Martha, her eyes landing on the illuminated murder board. "Does Katherine know about this?" she asks, pointing at the large screen.

"Don't interfere. Please. You don't know what you're talking about," Castle insists, remotely switching off the screen so that it goes dark.

"_Don't I_?" asks Martha, archly. "So, you're telling me you're not running a little side investigation of your own, Columbo?"

"That guy is _not_ going to escape again," Castle tells her, vehemently. "You know how you used to say that if you saw a spider in a corner you would grab a handful of tissues and kill that thing yourself, even though you hated being anywhere near them, just so that you would know for sure that it was dead when you flushed it away?"

"Spiders and human beings are wholly separate propositions, Richard," Martha points out calmly.

"Yeah, well, when you're the guy chained to a radiator like a dog for days on end, you get to look at things a little differently. _That_ guy is vermin. He has some kind of inexhaustible fixation on me that knows no limits. And every day that he is out there roaming the city, _you_, Alexis, me and Kate…none of us are safe."

"So leave it to the police, darling. That's their _job!_" insists Martha.

"And a spectacular result they've made of it so far."

"And what? You think you can do better, hmm? Going out on your own? You're crazy! You'll get yourself killed or you'll end up in jail for murder. Please, Richard? Stop this at once. If you know more than the NYPD, please call Kate and tell her. Or tell Agent Shaw if you must. Just promise me you won't go after that monster alone?"

"I can't promise anything, mother. And I want you to promise me you won't mention any of this to Kate. Now, I have a therapy session I have to get to."

"I thought your appointments with Dr. Burke were at five?" asks Martha, instantly suspicious after what she's just seen and heard.

"This is a one time thing. An appointment with Kate," he explains.

"A joint session?" asks Martha, pleasantly surprised, following him into the bedroom.

"Yeah. Couples counseling with Kate Beckett," he grins, fleetingly, grabbing his jacket out of the closet. "Go figure. If you'd have told me five years ago we would be doing that…" Castle shakes his head as he shrugs on his jacket.

Martha stares at the bed – the covers and pillows all askew.

"Is there something I should know?" she asks, tipping her head towards the unmade bed. "Did you two…?" she asks, shimmying her shoulders and hips, a twinkly smile back on her face.

"You definitely should have worked for the CIA, mother," Castle tells her, stuffing his wallet into his back pocket. "You missed your calling."

"It's never too late for a career change, darling," she beams, following Castle out into the living room.

"So, is that a yes to you and Kate?" she pushes, pursuing him all the way to the front door.

"That's a 'mind your own business'," Castle tells her, kissing her on the cheek.

"Okay, if you want to keep certain things between you private, I understand. But just promise me you won't go chasing after that man by yourself."

"I don't know anything yet," Castle lies. "It's all just supposition at this point. Theories and speculation to keep my brain from turning to oatmeal."

"Are you sure that's all it is?" asks Martha, narrowing her eyes at her son.

"I'm going to be late," he says, dodging the issue. "I'll see you later. Don't go anywhere without Officer Martinez."

"Oh, is he the one with the…?" she grins, fluffing up her hair.

"I forget," says Castle, sick of listening to his mother expound on the physical attributes of their revolving carousel of protection officers.

"Be good!" calls Martha, as Castle beats a hasty retreat down the hall, raising his hand in a wave before he steps inside the elevator.

* * *

Kate is already in the waiting room when Castle and Officer Torres arrive at Dr. Burke's office. She jumps up from her seat opposite the door letting the magazine fall from her lap in her haste to greet him.

Officer Torres picks the magazine up off the floor and then tells them both that he'll wait out in the hall, since the waiting room is starting to get a little crowded.

Kate and Castle stand looking at one another, while Dr. Burke's receptionist keeps her eyes trained discreetly on her computer monitor.

"You made it," says Kate, eagerly, smiling up at him, unsure what the protocol might be in these circumstances.

Does she kiss him, and if so, is it on the cheek or the lips? Or should she hug him?

She's still wondering what to do, when Castle's cell phone rings and he holds up a finger, nodding an apology to her, before stepping out into the corridor to take the call.

* * *

"So my guy knocked on the door," begins Harry Sullivan, jumping right in to describe the check on 210 Delancey Street he had carried out since they last spoke. "No answer. Then he let himself in. Place is vacant, Ricky. Frig is empty, only junk mail in the mailbox downstairs. Closets and cupboards were bare. That ain't it either."

"So we've got nothing?" says Castle, rolling his head on stiffening neck muscles. "We're back to square one."

"The broad I got in property records is still working on it. Says the system is slow to update. Any transaction that went through in the last few months is probably still a paper record, so it's taking some time to go back through the files."

"When'd the grandmother die?"

"End last year. And there was an aunt too. Look, I'll keep digging. You hear anything from the cops, you let me know and I'll check it out on my end."

"Thanks. Appreciate it," says Castle, hanging up the call and turning around to find Kate watching him through the partially open door. If she heard anything her face doesn't betray it.

He's on the point of apologizing for leaving her standing there and weaving some weak explanation for the call itself when Carter Burke's door opens and he pops his head out into the waiting room to welcome them inside.

* * *

Castle ushers Kate in ahead of him, his hand pressed to the small of her back as he counts his lucky stars that she missed the main thrust of the phone call.

Kate greets her therapist with a warm hug, since it has been over a year since the two last saw one another. Castle stands off to one side watching them, surprised to see Kate be this effusive with anyone outside of her own family. But then he supposes Dr. Burke has seen Kate through some pretty tough times; events and emotional turmoil he wasn't able to help her with back then.

"Rick," says Burke, stepping forward to shake the writer's hand. "Looking good," he nods, ushering them both over towards the seating area.

Both wearing dark denim, black jackets and dark shirts, they look as if they dressed to complement one another today, though their coordinated outfits are a complete quirk of coincidence. However, their matching appearance adds to the effect that they are an attractive couple, very much in step with one another, thus slightly obscuring their reason for being here.

The two leather armchairs that Castle had so much difficulty choosing between on his first visit have been angled towards one another in order to facilitate this joint therapy session. They create a little triangle that includes Dr. Burke's chair - like a powwow around a campfire, thinks Castle.

The writer hangs back, allowing Kate to sit down first. She chooses the chair next to the window and once she is settled, Castle seats himself down beside her.

Kate looks over at him, smiling softly, tentatively, wishing they had had a chance to say something to each other before coming into the room – to work out a strategy together: what to share and what to leave out. But then what would be the purpose of that, she supposes, since the whole point of therapy is to be open and honest. She just wishes that she knew where she stood after last night.

* * *

"Well, thank you both for coming along," says Burke, getting things underway immediately. "I understand that there are some time constraints today," he adds, nodding in Kate's direction, and Castle watches her nod back, wondering just what these two have discussed and when. "So, if we maybe just get right down to it," he suggests.

He pauses for a second to open his folder, and Castle looks over at Kate when he does so. He smiles at her when she looks nervously back at him. This is such new territory for both of them. Never in a million years did he expect to be doing this with her here.

"You're both looking well, if I might say," begins Burke. "Rick, how about we start with you. How are you feeling today? Any improvement on your sleep pattern since we last met?"

Castle clears his throat, and shifts nervously in his chair, suddenly unable to meet Kate's eyes.

"I…Uh…I think I managed maybe four hours last night," he says, flicking his eyes towards Kate, who is watching him closely. "Or, well, this morning it was in fact. From about four until eight."

"So, still finding it hard to go to bed at a regular time? To get back into a routine."

"Yeah," he admits, gruffly.

"And what about you, Kate?"

"Me?" asks Kate, surprised that this line of questioning includes her too.

"Yes. Are you managing to get much rest?"

"Well, I…"

Kate shakes her head, deciding at the last moment not to lie.

"Can you be a little more specific?" encourages Burke.

"I thought this session was to help Rick. I…I'm used to existing on little sleep. It's part of the job. Comes with the territory."

"You have both been through a terrible trauma recently. One that is not yet resolved, as far as I understand. Sleep is fundamental to the functioning of the body, to good health, and that includes good mental health," advises Burke.

"I just…I can't seem to…to stay asleep once I finally fall over," confesses Kate. "I get so tired that I have to lie down, but after an hour, maybe two if I'm lucky…I wake up again and my mind just starts to spin and…"

She shakes her head as if indicating that falling back asleep is hopeless at that point.

"What do you do then?" asks Burke, his deep, rich voice so soothing that Castle thinks he could probably fall asleep right now.

"I get up usually. Walk around until I'm exhausted. Sometimes I read…but it can be difficult to concentrate."

"And when did this pattern begin?" asks Burke, his eyes flicking from Castle to Kate and back again, this his first ever opportunity to observe the couple together.

Kate pauses before answering, gnaws on her lip, and then glances over at Castle for a second or two, before turning back towards Burke.

"It started right before I got to D.C."

"Were you worried about moving cities, taking on a larger responsibility in your new job perhaps?"

"Possibly. I don't know," shrugs Kate.

She knows the real answer, but just can't bring herself to say it in front of Castle.

"Could there be something else going on here, Kate? Something other than the job that would stop you sleeping?" probes Burke, tilting his head to one side, regarding her sympathetically.

Kate looks down at her lap, twisting her fingers together, while stalling for time or words or something.

"Kate?" says Burke, regaining her attention when she doesn't answer. "Remember how we work best in these sessions," he prompts gently.

"Honesty, I know," she nods, looking back down at her joined hands again. "I stopped sleeping through the night when Rick and I…"

Kate frowns, stops herself and shakes her head. "I'm sorry," she tells Castle. "What I was about to say…it wasn't the truth."

"Can you tell us the truth?" asks Burke.

* * *

Castle is holding his breath by this point, unable to believe what he's witnessing: how hard Kate is working to get through this, to make sure she's being honest about everything. It's painful to watch, but impressive too.

"It started when I left him," she tells Burke, flatly. "I was living with Rick at the loft when I got the job offer. We had been sharing a life, sharing a bed…had been for months. But as soon as I moved out, after I decided to take the job in D.C…that's when it started."

"The insomnia?"

"Yes," nods Kate, speaking clearly.

"And why do you think that was?" Dr. Burke probes, patiently.

"Look, we're on the clock here, Carter," says Kate, pushing her sleeve up and checking her dad's watch. "I can cope with the not sleeping. Honestly. I've gotten used to managing on fewer hours. It's surely more important that we help Rick right now," she argues.

"I'd like to hear the answer, if that's okay?" interjects Castle, Burke's reverse psychology beginning to work – drawing Castle's naturally caring nature towards Kate to the fore by demonstrating to him that she hasn't been enjoying a wonderfully happy existence while she's been living apart from him, like he might have imagined she was.

Kate stares at her partner, disbelieving.

"Please?" he prompts, swiveling round further to face her.

"Castle, I don't see how it can…" Kate hesitates.

"Kate, please?" he persists.

"Fine," she sighs, running a hand through her hair. "I think it's simple. I missed you. The bed was empty without you, and I missed you. Missed sleeping beside you. There, I've said it," she shrugs, sinking back into the leather chair and crossing her arms.

"Was that a difficult thing to admit?" asks Burke, watching Castle's reaction – the writer's face a picture of surprised admiration.

"To Rick or to myself?" asks Kate.

"Either. Both."

"To myself…in the beginning, yes. I made the wrong choice by going to D.C. in the way that I did. But to tell Castle how I feel?" Kate shakes her head, flicking her gaze over his face, before looking across at the blinds and to the window beyond that is really nothing more than a blank light box. "Not as difficult as it used to be. But I'm still not as good at it as I should be or as I want to be. I know that," she concedes.

"Rick? How do you feel about the things Kate has just said?" asks Burke, putting Castle on the spot now.

"I…I appreciate her honesty, I guess. Kate knows, because I've told her in the past, that I would like her to be able to be more open with me, to tell me what she's thinking or feeling, to talk about anything that's worrying her…"

"And do you believe that still to be an issue today?"

"I can see that she's been trying hard ever since she came back to New York."

"But…?" pushes Dr. Burke. "You think there's room for more?"

"I don't think it would be fair of me to lay all the blame for our recent inability to communicate at her feet. I've been struggling to be honest with her too."

"And why is that do you think?" asks Burke.

"It's like we talked about in our last two sessions. I'm having a hard time trusting her. I…"

Castle shifts uncomfortably in his chair, crossing one leg over his other knee, picking at a thread that's come loose in the inseam of his pants.

"And Kate? How does it make you feel to hear Rick say these things?"

"It's not easy to hear that the person you love doesn't trust you. Who would argue with that? But, I know that I broke the trust between us when I lied to him about the job, when I kept him out of the decision-making process and went through it all on my own. We had a life together and I ignored that when I made choices that affected both of us radically without consulting him. That was disrespectful and…and selfish of me. I can see that now."

"Does it help to hear Kate admit these things?" Burke asks Castle.

"Honestly?" asks Castle, sitting up a little straighter. "I don't get any pleasure from hearing her confess or chastise herself, no."

"How _does_ it make you feel, Rick?"

"It makes me feel sad. Sad for everything that we had, everything that we've lost," he admits, nodding slowly.

* * *

Kate's head snaps up to look at Castle when he says these things, his words sounding so resigned and final.

"And do you think there is any way you can regain the things you feel that you've lost?"

"I don't know," says Castle, meeting Kate's worried gaze and letting his eyes hold onto hers. "I honestly don't know."

"You don't seem like two people who no longer care for one another," observes Burke. "The way you interact. There's obviously a deep connection between you or you wouldn't be here in the first place. Am I wrong in that assumption?"

Silence reigns, and Kate finally looks away, brushing a tear from her cheek and then hurriedly searching in her jacket for a tissue. Castle pulls a cotton handkerchief out of his pocket and hands it to her.

"Thanks," she whispers, quickly blotting her face with the warm cotton square that smells of fabric softener and home.

"Kate, you seem upset by Rick's uncertainty over the future of your relationship. Care to tell us how _you_ feel about things going forward?"

Kate looks at her partner, searching his face, and she shakes her head just barely. She can't believe that they shared such a beautiful, spiritual, intimate moment not seven hours ago, and yet Castle now seems to feel hopeless about their prospects.

"I am upset, yes," she nods, blowing her nose and then sniffing. "I've made it clear to Rick that I still love him and that I would like to have a future with him. We haven't talked in any detail obviously, given the nightmare we're caught up in with Tyson still being on the run. But I wrote him a letter, and I tried to be as honest as I could when I put my thoughts down on paper. To make my intentions clear."

She feels hurt by Castle's behavior, a little spark of anger that he isn't being completely honest in front of Burke.

* * *

"Rick, you mentioned Kate's letter when we spoke the other day. Although you didn't share the contents, you seemed to be of the opinion that Kate's words were sincere. But you said you needed to see more action to back them up. Would that be a fair assessment?"

The word 'action' hits Kate like a freight train.

"Oh, he saw some action alright," she blurts, watching Castle wince when she shares this little nugget of information with their therapist. "You want to know how he managed to sleep for four hours solid? There's the real answer."

Burke looks a little confused until Castle explains.

"We slept together," he admits, with a sigh. "Early this morning. First time in over three months," he adds, lifting his eyebrows.

"I see," says Burke, looking at Kate with some concern.

"I know we talked about that," admits Castle, and Kate stares at both of them in surprise. "Not about you and I sleeping together specifically," Castle hurries to clarify. "Just about how…sleeping together can affect relationships that are in trouble."

"You seemed close when you arrived at today's session. Did renewing that physical intimacy harm your relationship or confuse matters? What do we think?" asks Burke, looking from one to the other, as unperturbed by this news as ever.

"I was not under the impression that it had harmed things," says Kate. "Quite the opposite in fact. I felt closer to you than I felt even before I left," she says, directing her commentary at Castle now. "I thought…well, I _hoped_ that maybe you felt that way too. We needed last night. Both of us."

"Kate, you can't confuse loneliness with love," Castle tells her, devastating her.

"And you can't _lie_ to me about how you feel," she argues back. "I _know you_, and I _know_ what last night felt like. That wasn't just sex, for either of us. So, don't try pretending that's all it was, Castle."

"Kate, you seem angry," interrupts Burke's soothing voice.

"Yes, I'm angry," agrees Kate. "Because he's lying to himself and he's lying to both of us if he thinks that last night meant nothing," she adds, sinking back into the depths of her armchair.

"Rick?" prompts Burke.

"What?"

"Are you lying? Did sleeping with Kate mean nothing to you on an emotional level?"

Castle looks at the floor. He lets a long, slow breath out through his nose.

"No. Of course it didn't," he tells her, his voice filled with resignation. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

"Then why did you?" she asks, turning fully to face him. "Rick, look at me. Talk to me?" she pleads. "That's why we're here. Tell me what you're so afraid of?"

When Castle doesn't reply, Kate tries again.

"_I'm_ the silent one here, the closed off one, the…the screwed up one. _You're_ the talker, and yet last night when we were together, you barely said a word. What's going on inside your head, Castle? What are you so afraid of? Let me help you?" she begs.

"_You!_" he finally admits.

"Me?" asks Kate, confused for a second.

"Yes, you! I'm afraid of _you._ Okay?" he confesses, getting up from his chair and pacing over to the door.

For a heart stopping second Kate thinks he's about to leave, but then he turns around and paces back the other way.

She looks over at Burke, and he smiles at her, encouraging her, and so she gets up from her chair and goes over to him.

* * *

"Hey," she whispers, catching hold of his wrist and then taking his hand. "Look at me please?" she asks, when he looks off to one side.

Castle finally drags his eyes over to meet hers.

"I meant what I said last night. I will never hurt you again."

"Never is a pretty long time, Kate," Castle replies, clearly unconvinced.

"So is forever," retorts Kate, referring to the closing lines of her letter, leaving that thought hanging in the air between them as she holds out her arms to him.

He's stiff within her embrace at first, but she persists, running her fingers gently up and down his spine, her face pressed into his neck.

"Look at the evidence," she says, when she pulls back. "I'm not making you work for it anymore, Castle. I'm trying to be an open book, here."

"I know you are," he concedes, pulling her back towards him and finally hugging her properly.

When her cell phone rings, they both startle, letting go of one another and immediately moving apart. Kate looks down at her phone screen and Castle sees that it says Rachel McCord is calling.

Kate looks back up at him, her face filled with guilt as she says, "I'm really sorry. But I have to take this."

She looks over at Burke too, almost awaiting permission to answer the call.

Burke nods silently, and Kate leaves the room.

* * *

Castle returns to his chair, sinking down heavily to face the therapist and the awkward silence that fills the air while they await Kate's return. He finds it highly ironic that Kate is the one who's been doing most of the talking for the last forty minutes. Role reversal in extremis.

"How do you feel that went?" asks Burke, eventually. "For a first session together you both tackled some difficult issues with a great deal of honesty," says Burke, clearly impressed. "Kate has opened up a lot since I last saw her," he offers up out of nowhere, perhaps as a sign to Castle of how much good being with him has done her.

"I'd say that's a fair assessment," agrees Castle.

Kate returns to the room before they can say anymore, and she hurries over to sit in her own chair. She angles her body towards Castle when she speaks.

"That was work," she explains, earnestly. "The warrant finally came through for the second property we've been waiting to get access to. I…I'm so sorry to do this, but…"

"_Go_," says Castle, without a seconds' hesitation.

"Are you sure?" asks Kate, hoping this isn't going to count against her in the wider scheme of things.

"I'm sure. Go," he replies, offering her a smile of reassurance.

"This would be a good point to wrap up our session for today," agrees Burke, watching how the two interact again. "Kate, I was just telling Rick that I think you have both made an excellent start. I know things are tough with this case hanging over you at the moment, but if you can find some time to continue the dialogue we've started when you're at home together that would be really helpful."

Both Kate and Castle nod their agreement with the therapist.

"And remember, honesty is key when we're sharing our feelings with one another. A relationship is really a series of transactions or negotiations. It's all about give and take. Be clear about what you want from each other to avoid any disappointment or misunderstanding. Secrets have no place in a successful relationship. Be as open as you can."

"Thank you," says Kate, standing to shake Dr. Burke's hand.

"Yeah, thanks, Doc," adds Castle, doing the same.

"Let's schedule another joint session when you can find some time, Kate," suggests the doctor. "In the meantime, Rick, you and I can meet again tomorrow at five and continue the work we started on our own."

* * *

They leave the Doctor's office with Officer Torres in tow. The elevator ride down fourteen floors is silent and awkward, since they all know why they were there, and yet they're all pretending that they don't.

"Bob, can you give us a minute?" asks Castle, when they hit the shiny marble and brass froideur of the lobby.

Bob nods, still wordless, gives Kate a little courtly salute and a bow before he makes his way out onto to the sidewalk to wait.

"I swear that guy is starting to rub off on me," mutters Castle, following the cop's retreating back with his eyes. "He'd rob anyone of the power of speech with that silent routine."

"Is that your explanation for last night?" asks Kate, her tone suddenly teasing, a spark back in her eyes. "Because you'd better start talking again soon, Castle. This strong silent type stuff just doesn't suit you. It's freaking me out."

Castle laughs; a real belly laugh, and Kate does the same, catching hold of his arm as they giggle together in the rather formal hallway, businessmen and women passing by on either side of them without so much as a glance in their direction.

"Yeah, I couldn't believe that you were actually complaining up there that I'm not talking enough?" he says, giving her a crazy, adorable look. "I _will _remind you of that in years to come."

The smile sets on Kate's face and she stares at him.

"Give me years, and I don't care how much you talk or how often you taunt me…about anything," she assures him, squeezing his arm for emphasis. "Just give me those years, Castle."

A horn honks outside as a navy blue Charger slides to a halt, double-parking in front of the building's green awning.

"Dammit. That'll be Rachel," says Kate, annoyed that another quiet, intimate moment between them has been interrupted yet again.

"I'll walk you out," offers Castle, turning towards the doors.

"Hey, um, I'd like to do what Burke suggested, if we can?" she adds, biting her lip.

"Hmm?" asks Castle, watching Bob Torres speaking to Rachel through the glass, wondering how on earth she gets him to open up when he's as tight as a drum around Castle.

"Carry on talking at home," reminds Kate. "We could eat in tonight, if…"

She shrugs, and toes the marble tile.

"I'd like that," replies Castle, turning his back to the doors to discuss it with her.

"You would?" asks Kate, such a hopeful lift to her voice that she almost winces at herself.

"Sure. Call me when you're done executing the warrant."

"Okay, I'd better go. Be good for Officer Torres," she smiles, patting him on the chest.

"Take care out there, Kate," replies Castle, leaning down to kiss her lightly on the lips.

Kate catches hold of his lapel and holds him against her, prolonging the kiss for as long as she can get away with, then she presses her forehead against his, breathing quietly for a second, until Rachel lets rip with a yelp of the siren and they both groan.

"That glass is tinted. No way she can see in here," Castle points out.

"Yeah, well, that girl has a sixth sense for stuff like this. I'm telling you," smiles Kate, her heart newly lifted. "Ryan and Espo are total amateurs in comparison."

Castle catches her sleeve just as she reaches for the glass door.

"Hey."

"Mmm?"

"I meant what I just said. Be careful, Kate. We both know what he's capable of. And I'm not there to have your back anymore."

Kate smiles at his sweet remark, and she leans in to kiss him on the cheek.

"Rachel is a poor substitute for a partner," she winks. "Just don't tell her I said that."

"Secret's safe with me," replies Castle, tapping the side of his nose. "Call me when it's over and we can plan dinner."

"Thank you," nods Kate, sincerely. "For giving me a chance."

"No promises. But I'm willing to work on things if you are."

"You know what I want," Kate tells him. "No more secrets, and no more lies, Castle. I know I've said it before and then I broke that promise. But I just want you," she tells him, before making her escape out through the double doors to another whoop of the Charger's siren from Rachel.

* * *

Castle follows her out onto the sidewalk, waving them both off. He feels rotten inside that he didn't share the information he already knows with Kate – that Apartment 4C at 210 Delancey Street will only prove to be another dead end.

But so long as he can keep one step out in front of this thing, there is more chance of him catching up with Tyson before Kate can get to him. Keeping her out of danger has become his number one priority since she shared Tyson's note with him. If he loses her because he can't reconcile himself with what it means to be with Kate Beckett, then that will be _his loss_ but also _his decision_. What he refuses to do is to lose her to the evil monster that is Jerry Tyson. Not ever.

* * *

_A/N: Thoughts? Hope everyone is having a lovely weekend. Liv_


	32. Chapter 32 - Decoding and Deciphering

**__****Chapter 32: Decoding and Deciphering**

"Thanks for dropping me off," says Kate, releasing her seatbelt before turning to thank Rachel. "I know SoHo is a little out of your way."

"Hey, not a problem. I'm just sorry we're not all out celebrating a win tonight. I really thought that address on Delancey was gonna be it. The right one, you know?"

"Yeah," nods Kate. "Me too."

"How's Rick? I saw you guys were together this morning when I picked you up, _so_…? Things any better?"

"Sometimes I think they are, and then there are other moments when…" Kate shakes her head, brushes her hands down her pants. "It's going to be a long road back. That's all I know for sure right now. Just don't ever make any decisions about your future without clueing Kelly in first. That would be my advice," says Kate, shaking her head at her own stupidity, a rueful smile on her face.

"Hey, hang in there, Kate. You'll get there. If he thinks you only came back to New York because of Tyson, the guy is a bigger fool than I already pegged him for. And you can tell him I said that. Because one thing is totally clear, and that's that you two love each other. You want me to talk to him, you just say the word," says Rachel, only half-joking Kate can see.

"Maybe I'll hold that threat in reserve," laughs Kate. "We're having dinner together tonight."

"Oh, going out somewhere romantic? I like it."

"No. No, we're staying home. Need a chance to talk in private, and with Tyson still out there…" she shrugs.

"Yeah, you're probably right."

"I got the keys back to my old apartment today. Kind of dreading going over there," Kate confesses.

"CSU organize a crime scene cleanup?"

"No. No, I said I'd do it," sighs Kate, pushing her fingers through her hair. "I need to decide which items of furniture to keep and what to give to Goodwill. Some days I think I might just burn the lot. The thought of him being there, touching things..." she lets her head drop back against the headrest with a thud. "And I need to take photographs of the damage to the walls and doors to claim on my renter's insurance."

"Sounds like a fun job," says Rachel, dryly. "If you need moral support or an extra pair of hands, you call me, okay? Kelly and I both look great in coveralls," she says, winking at Kate.

"I will bear that in mind," laughs Kate. "Thanks for the offer. I was happy in that apartment for a longtime. It suited me. But now I just can't wait to get it off my hands."

"What will you do?"

"Depends," replies Kate, plucking at the cuff of her jacket.

"On Rick?"

"Pretty much," admits Kate. "And that sounds so…pathetic, I know."

"No. Not pathetic. A little desperate, maybe," jokes Rachel, elbowing Kate in the side and then grinning at her erstwhile partner. "And a lot sad. But not pathetic."

Kate can't stop herself from laughing.

"You know what I mean. I've never let myself…let my _life _- where I live, where I work - be dictated by a relationship or a man before."

"We all need people in our lives, Kate. Even tough girls like you and me. Recognizing that doesn't make you weak or pathetic. Nights like tonight – wasted day, no results to show for all the hours we put in – having Kelly waiting for me at home is all that keeps me from going insane. Or worse, heading out to some dive bar and losing myself in a bottle of Tequila."

"We are _so_ going for that drink when this thing is over," says Kate, suddenly eager to be somewhere else herself, as she unlocks the car door.

"Have a great night. Pick you up at eight tomorrow," calls Rachel, through the open car door.

* * *

When Kate unlocks the front door to the loft, she finds the living space eerily quiet and remarkably under-lit for the time of day. The second thing that hits her is the wonderful smell of home cooking, and she wonders for a second if this is some romantic staging Castle has created for their dinner tonight – the low light, the warm, quiet atmosphere. She looks over towards the dining table to see if it has been set, for any sign of candles or flowers. But there's nothing – it's completely bare.

She deposits her keys on the hall table and takes off her jacket, hanging it up in the coat closet, before making her way towards Castle's office from where the sole source of light seems to be emanating.

She releases her gun from its holster as she crosses the floor, intending to place it inside Castle's safe for safekeeping overnight, when she walks in to his office to find herself face-to-face with Martha. The writer's mother is sitting in Castle's big leather chair, a shocked, worried expression on her face.

* * *

"_Martha?_" exclaims Kate, coming to an immediate halt in front of the desk. "Is everything okay? Why are you sitting in here on your own and why are all the lights off? Where's Rick?" she asks, immediately turning round to look off towards the bedroom, hoping to hear the sound of the shower running, whistling, singing…just something.

"I told him to tell you what he was up to," says Martha, her voice strained and wavering. "I warned him it was a bad, bad idea. But would he listen to his mother?"

"Martha, please calm down and just…just explain to me what's going on?" asks Kate, coming closer to sit on the edge of the desk, trying to tamp down the sick feeling rising in her stomach and the thundering, palpitating sensation that's suddenly started up inside her chest.

"This Tyson fellow, I think Richard's going after him on his own," confesses Martha, her eyes wide and round as she confesses her suspicions to Kate.

"What? _How?_"

"I caught him...I caught him _lying_ to you on the phone today when he told you Paula was on the other line, and so I—"

"Wait? Are you saying that there _was_ no call from Paula?"

Martha nods.

Kate looks stricken. She feels bewildered and betrayed.

"I…Katherine, I'm so sorry. I should have called you, but Richard insisted. He made me promise…"

"Forget it. Forget that for now," says Kate, reeling from this news, shaking her head to get her brain to clear enough to focus on what's important right at this instant. "Just tell me why you think he's going after Tyson?"

"I followed him in here after he ended his call with you, and I saw that…that screen thing he has. It was all lit up."

"This one?" asks Kate, turning to point to the large, flat screen in the corner.

Martha nods.

"And…and so, what did you see?"

"Names and addresses, I think. Photographs, and a handwritten note in the center of it all."

Kate releases a long blown-out breath, and then she thumps her fist down on the desk beside her thigh, her heart hammering.

"Anything else?"

"There was an aerial shot of a building and a map...a street map. I'm sorry I can't be more specific, my dear. But he closed it down before I could read any of it."

"And what did he say to you? I mean…did he _talk_ to you about any of it? Try to explain what he was up to?"

Martha shakes her head, her fingers wrapped around her long necklace, worrying the pavé beads like a Rosary.

"I asked him what he thought he was doing poking around the case on his own, _urged_ him to tell you or Agent Shaw what he knew."

"And what did he say?"

"He told me I didn't know what I was talking about, that Tyson was vermin…" Martha shakes her head. "Darling, I'm so sorry I didn't call you as soon as I saw this," she says, pressing a hand over her mouth.

"Hey, it's okay," soothes Kate, hopping down off the desk to comfort Castle's mother.

"But what if something happens to him?"

"Do you know where he went?"

"He got a call from that Harry chap about fifteen minutes ago, took something out of the safe and then he left. Wouldn't say where he was going. This is so unlike him, Katherine. I'm scared."

"What did he take out of the safe, Martha?" asks Kate, gripping hold of the woman's arm, trying to keep her on track, to stop her mind from spiralling towards a worst case scenario.

"Money, maybe?" she shrugs. "I don't know what he keeps in there anymore. Not since you started keeping your gun inside. It's off-limits."

"Who is this Harry? Do you have a full name? Is he someone you know?"

"No. Just that he's taken a few calls from this chap over the last couple of days, that's all I know. But here, see for yourself," says Martha, opening the top desk drawer and handing Kate the small remote for the electronic murder board.

When she presses the power button and it illuminates, Kate is confronted by incontrovertible evidence, if she even needed any at this juncture, that Martha is correct – Castle has been investigating Tyson's whereabouts by himself.

The note Jerry Tyson left for her forms the centerpiece of Castle's murder board – a scan of the pale blue Xerox'd copy she gave him, Tyson's own handwriting slightly faded in this facsimile twice removed. The note began with a poem called '_Premeditation_' and ended with a personal threat.

* * *

"_Oh blade you'll warm tonight!_

_Awash in crimson-purple flows,_

_Your sheen will dull with aching flesh:_

_Palpating anatomic mounds_

_Caressing, dancing, writhing round_

_Your metal form-_

_Whetted 'gainst a lonely bone,_

_Then to probe the pounding, begging heart."_

"_And all the while the prey will howl_

_Before they crumple; greet the mud-_

_A taut and unbelieving jowl_

_Will open out for giving blood-_

_A vent from down below,_

_Once a brutal show_

_Of metal in the man."_

_Ah, the beauty of words. But then you've had your own personal wordsmith droning on in your ear for years now. Enough! Time for a change. _

_Think of me often, Kate, for I will be thinking of you and remembering our special time. Count me near, since wherever you go my place shall never be far away._

_Until we meet again, my best to your poor damaged Castle. He knows not what he has lost and suspects not what he has yet to surrender. Such a deeply foolish man. _

_No matter, for he is soon gone._

_Be vigilant, detective, for you do not know the hour or the place. Be ready._

_Always,_

_JT_

* * *

Kate shakes her head at the poem and the content of the megalomaniac's note, wondering now if she did the right thing by sharing it with Castle at all.

"I only showed this to him because I didn't want any more secrets between us," she assures Castle's mother.

"Katherine, my son is nothing if not stubborn and resourceful. We both know that. Keeping that note from him would not have stopped him from poking around this case. Deep down I'm sure you know that's the truth."

"Maybe. But what if it spurred him on?" asks Kate, already blaming herself.

"Then what's done is done. Might I suggest you try _finding him_ before he can get himself into anymore trouble?"

"Sure. Of course," replies Kate, turning her attention back to the electronic board.

The details listed include a full profile on Eric Winters – Tyson's most recent alibi – including an update that reads simply: _'Deceased'_.

Castle has also added pen portraits of Jessie Calman, Tyson's nurse-girlfriend and her sister, Sarah Calman, and he has somehow accessed a surprising amount of information – details Kate and the team have only recently uncovered. She doesn't know whether to be more impressed or annoyed. He has copies of city property ownership records, tax information, bank account details, cell phone numbers.

The Mott Street address is described as: _'Uninhabited'_.

The Delancey Street apartment they raided today is also on the board, complete with photographs, Kate is surprised to see. This one he has updated to a status of: _'Dead End'_.

* * *

"Martha, there's nothing else on here," says Kate, attempting to click on the various pieces of information to check there are no links to other parts of this investigation he's been running by himself.

"I'm sorry, my dear. I wish I could help you more."

"What _exactly_ did he do before he left. Describe it to me. Every detail, every step he took from the second that call came in."

"He was in the kitchen making dinner. He seemed to be in a better mood since he got back from…"

Martha looks at Kate, on her face an apology for prying.

"It's okay," Kate tells her, looking down at the small black remote box in her hands. "You can't have failed to notice the tension between us. We saw Dr. Burke together this morning. So, he seemed happier when he got back?" prompts Kate.

"Yes. He was cooking and…and he was even _singing_ at one point," recalls Martha, wistfully. "I honestly thought he had turned a corner."

"And what then?" pushes Kate, knowing time is of the essence now.

"Uh…he…eh, then he took the damn call," she tells Kate, throwing her hands in the air.

"And…did you hear anything that was said? Think carefully, Martha. This is _really_ important."

"I heard him mention this Harry's name, but that's all, darling. He walked away to come in here," she recollects, indicating the office they are in now.

"And he was in here for how long before he came back out?"

"Eh…five minutes at most. The sauce he left sitting on the stove started to burn, so I went to warn him and that's when I saw him lift something out of the safe."

"And this something…how big are we talking?"

"Large enough that he tried to conceal it with both hands. He turned his back to me and tucked it inside his jacket when I walked in."

Kate goes over to the safe herself and opens the combination lock. She hasn't been keeping her gun in there since she got back to New York because of their strained living arrangements. She was going to store it inside for the first time tonight, since they were supposed to be spending the evening together at home.

Inside she sees some of the things she expects to see – Castle, Alexis and Martha's passports sitting on the shelf at the top, along with some other paperwork. There's a ring box and a few other jewelry boxes that she assumes belong to Martha. A small, clear pouch with a Ziploc seal containing a thick wad of notes is a new addition. But the most chilling thing she finds are two small, red and black plastic boxes with the words: _'Federal Premium Ammunition: Reduced Recoil'_ printed on the front.

The label on the side of the box tells her that each should contain twenty _9x19mm Parabellum Federal Hydro-Shok JHP_ cartridges. He isn't messing around anymore. These personal defense, low-recoil, jacketed hollow point bullets are designed to expand on impact, to tear through soft tissue and produce as much damage as possible. She opens the boxes one after the other. Out of a total of forty slots, there are only six cartridges left. One box is completely empty. Kate doesn't know it yet, but he fully loaded two magazines before he left the apartment.

The one thing she does know, is that she needs to find him fast.

* * *

"Martha, does Rick own a gun?" she asks bluntly, holding both hands up to calm Martha when her eyebrows shoot up at the unexpected question.

"He...eh...he started visiting the range a few weeks after you left. I thought he was just blowing off steam. You know how he liked to play cop. And he missed the adrenalin rush of police work. But I never imagined for a second that he would be keeping a gun in the house. Why, did you find something?" she asks, just as Kate manages to re-close and lock the safe without Martha seeing inside, her heart sinking at keeping information from her boyfriend's mother, but the fewer people know about this particular fact the better.

"Have you tried calling him?" she asks Martha to distract her, as she spins around, going back over to the desk.

"Yes. Of course. The call went straight to voicemail," laments Martha.

"Try him again," she instructs, closing her eyes for a second to calm herself down and regain some focus.

She stares down at the desk, trying hard to think like Castle. His blotter is sitting there, doodles scrawled all the way up each side where the extra wide pad of paper borders his laptop, surrounding it like a picture frame. His scribbles are like a detailed mind map – only far messier. Names, phrases, telephone numbers, even snatches of dialogue, and so many shapes, pictograms and cartoon faces that it's hard to decipher one message from the next. She sits down to read them as Martha hovers beside her, her face a white as the paper itself.

"Still going to voicemail," she tells Kate, muttering, "Oh, _Richard!_" to herself and shaking her head.

"Anything?" Martha asks Kate, her hand resting on the back of the chair as she reads over her shoulder.

"When he took the call, are you sure he came straight here?" asks Kate, rapidly flicking her eyes and trailing her finger over every annotation and scribble.

"Eh…yes."

"So, he didn't stop to write anything down on a notepad or a scrap of paper out in the kitchen maybe?" suggests Kate, trying not to pressure Martha too much, since she knows how unreliable stress can make a witness.

"No, darling. I'm sorry. He came straight in here."

Kate's eyes alight on a pen lying uncapped on the side of the desk. It's the fancy, imported Mitsubishi 'uni-ball' brand Castle likes to stock up on at Kate's Paperie on Broome Street, just a few doors down from the loft. He buys the fine-nib, ink-filled, Japanese pens in all different colors. She used to tease him about his preference for the lavender and turquoise versions. This one is a dark red ink and the cap is off, jammed onto the rear end of the pen where it looks like it was discarded in a hurry. He never leaves them lying like that – _ever_ – says it dries up the ink.

She looks back down at the blotter, picks up the pen and makes a small impression on the paper. If the pen is the same shade of red as the last thing he wrote, there is only one annotation that fits, since all the other doodles are in black, purple or blue ink.

She finds what she thinks at first is a woman's name – Elizabeth Hester – but then she sees the number he's scrawled beside her name. The number 'fifty-eight' has been circled several times, all of it written in the same red ink.

She taps the desk a couple of times and then jumps up from the chair, her cell phone already in her hand as she heads for the door.

* * *

"Where are you going?" yells Martha, trailing her to the front door.

"Dammit, Castle!" she yells, hanging up the call. "His phone is still turned off."

"Well, I could have told you that," interjects Martha, and Kate finds herself having to bite her tongue.

She calls Officer Torres next, but he's off-duty and has no idea who was sent to replace him. She grabs her jacket out of the hall closet and shrugs it on, passing her phone from hand-to-hand as she does so, waiting for the next call to connect.

"_Rachel?_ Rachel, listen to me. I need you to turn around. Rick is missing. I think he might have gone after Tyson. Can you come pick me up? I'll explain on the way."

Mercifully, Rachel does as Kate asks without any further questions. She hears the siren kick into life in the background just as the female detective ends the call to spin the car around and head back down to SoHo.

"Katherine, for goodness sake be careful," pleads Martha, clutching at Kate's wrist. "I don't know what mischief Richard has gotten himself into this time, but I love you both. So, please, darling, take care and bring him home safely?"

"I'll do my best," assures Kate, giving the older woman's hand a quick squeeze, before she leaves the loft and heads downstairs to wait on her ride.

* * *

"What the hell is he playing at?" are the first words out of Rachel's mouth when Kate slides into the still moving car.

"Damned if I know," says Kate, slamming the door after her.

"So…you know where he went? Did he tell anyone? Leave a note? _Anything?_"

"No. And he's not answering his phone. But his mother said he's been getting calls from some guy called 'Harry' and I found this whole investigation file setup on his computer upstairs. He's been trying to solve the case on his own, Rachel. I think he thinks he knows where Tyson's hiding and now he's gone after him."

"Stupid son of a…" mutters Rachel, slamming her hand down onto the steering wheel and startling Kate. "So, where to now?"

"The Calman properties were situated close to one another, right? Mott and Delancey, they're within a mile of each other. I found a scribbled note on his desk. It said 'Elizabeth Hester, 58'. At first I thought it was a person and maybe an age. But I think I got it wrong."

"You're thinking Elizabeth _and_ Hester, as in the _streets?_ In Chinatown?"

Kate nods vigorously and Rachel abruptly pulls away from the curb.

"And fifty-eight is the address? No apartment number?" she asks, glancing over at Kate as she turns sharp left on to Grand Street.

"No, just fifty-eight. Look, I know it's a long shot. But he had a file with all the girls' information on there, information even _we_ didn't have. There was an inheritance, a sum of money held in an irrevocable trust, and he had _'estate going through probate'_ written next to Sarah's name and a question mark over a property address, as if he didn't have the full details yet."

"_So_…?"

"So, what if that's the call he got from this…this Harry guy Martha said he's been talking to?"

"The missing address? Makes sense, I guess, if he suddenly ran out the door without telling her why."

"He took a call right before we went into a...a meeting this morning," recalls Kate, thinking back to the therapist's office. "Left the room. That's just not like him. I wish I'd paid more attention."

"Keeping secrets?"

"Looks like," sighs Kate, remembering Dr. Burke's advice to them about being completely open and honest with one another. "This thing with Tyson has changed him, Rachel. He's so angry. So closed off. The complete opposite of the man I used to know."

"Hardly surprising after what he went through. Knowing Rick just a little, he probably blames himself," Rachel says, quickly glancing over at Kate, who's staring out of the window with a strained, anxious look on her face.

"I'm sure you're right. And I'm afraid that's not all," confesses Kate.

"What? You mean there's more good news? Please tell me he didn't shake off his detail?"

"Like that's the worst of our worries right now?" says Kate. "No, Martha said he took something from the safe before he left, and when I checked what was in there, I found one empty box of 9mm cartridges and one with only six left inside."

"Does he have a carry permit?"

"Rachel, he didn't even _own_ a _gun_ last I lived there."

"And you think you know someone," Rachel adds, dryly, tutting and shaking her head.

"Not helping," snaps Kate, as Rachel takes the corner from Grand into Mott Street a little too fast, narrowly missing a young girl and her boyfriend who're just stepping off the curb, and Kate has to grab onto the door for support.

"Okay, cut the siren and cut your speed before we kill someone," says Kate, ignoring the irony of her own statement, given where they're headed.

* * *

It's dark outside by now, but Chinatown is as busy as ever – pedestrians and garish neon signs abound up and down the sidewalks, rows of string lights, red paper lanterns and flags hang outside almost every storefront and restaurant. They cruise the block looking for any sign of Castle's rental car, since the Mercedes-Benz Tyson stole is still in the shop being repaired and they have no idea if he's on foot or not.

Rachel heads south onto Canal before making a left to find an empty parking spot close to the junction with Elizabeth Street, a mere block away from their target address.

Kate is about to leap out of the car when Rachel stops her with a hand on her arm.

"Shouldn't we call Jordan and the guys?" she suggests, already reaching for her cell phone. "Wait for backup?"

"He's _armed_, Rachel. "_Armed_ and _upset_. Just getting _caught_ carrying that firearm...and God knows where he even got it…it'll _ruin_ him," Kate points out.

"But if he finds Tyson before we do…?" argues Rachel, leaving her point hanging in the air.

"All the more reason we need to go. _Now!_ Find him before he can even get to Tyson," insists Kate.

"Are you asking me too do what I think you're—"

"I'm not asking you to do anything you're not comfortable with," interrupts Kate. "Let's clear that right up. I can go it alone. Not a problem," she hurriedly assures her, pausing with her hand on the door to wait for an answer.

Rachel lets out a long, slow breath, bobs her head a few times as if she's carrying on some internal conversation, and then she abruptly cuts the engine.

"Your vest is in the trunk. Make sure you grab a flashlight when you're back there," she tells Kate, reaching for her own gun from the glovebox, before getting out of the car to join Kate on the sidewalk.

* * *

_A/N: The poem contained in Tyson's note to Kate was called 'Premeditation' and it was written by Mark R. Slaughter, appropriately enough. Love to hear your thoughts. Liv_


	33. Chapter 33 - Nemesis

_**Chapter 33: Nemesis **_

Number fifty-eight Elizabeth Street is in darkness. A five-story apartment building with a rusted fire escape zigzag its way from floor to floor like an overused game of snakes and ladders. The residential element of the building sits atop a storefront that stretches all the way back to the building behind, fairly narrow but deep.

"Check out the name above the door," says Kate, gesturing with her flashlight to the worn, gold lettering curling over the dusty glass.

"Calman's Fine Antiques and Collectibles," reads Rachel, illuminating the crackled gold leaf with her own flashlight beam.

"The antiques at Sarah's apartment – the furniture and jewelry. No wonder she had so many of them."

"Dead peoples' things _and_ tombstones? Nice theme going in the family business," adds Rachel, dryly.

* * *

They begin by checking out the communal entrance door to the apartments above. But the scuffed, black door is locked up tight, a hasp and padlock fitted to the outside adding extra security on top of the battered Yale mortise lock which has seen countless numbers of residents come and go over the years, with who knows how many sets of keys in existence.

A yellow and black plastic sticker with the words: _'Construction Site. Keep Out!'_ has been slapped across the door, warning potential trespassers to stay clear.

"No one's been in there in a while. It's locked from the outside," points out Kate.

"Doesn't look like there's much activity going on either," adds Rachel, shining her light down on a stack of faded, water-stained White Pages phone books pushed up into a corner, dirt and dead leaves collected around them.

They head back down the steps and onto the neighboring entranceway to the shop front next door.

A faded 'closed' sign hangs askew on a nail in the window of the front door to the store. How long it's been there is anyone's guess, but Kate figures they must have shut up shop some time in the last ten years, judging by the thick layer of dirt clinging to the glass. The paint around the window frames is peeling and flaking, a muddy brown color that looks almost black in this low light, exposing the dry, silvery, cracked wood underneath to the elements.

The two women climb the steps together, and people pass by on the street below, but no one pays them any heed. A chipped, rust-encrusted wrought iron railing borders each side of the steps, since they rise seemingly unsupported to hang cantilevered above the basement void beneath.

Kate leans closer, peering in through the window of the old store, one hand held above her eyes to cut out the reflection from the streetlights behind them.

"Anything?" asks Rachel, shining her torch in through the glass to illuminate the darkness beyond.

"Can't see much," concedes Kate, straightening up.

"What now?"

"Well, we don't have a warrant," Kate points out, stepping over to the righthand railing to peer down into the moss-covered basement level below, where iron bars protect the windows and old newsprint has been tacked up to cover the glass from the inside, before she steps back and cranes her neck to look up at the red sandstone façade of the building as it rises above them.

"Ever wonder how many apartments in Manhattan are unoccupied…just forgotten about and left to decay after somebody dies," muses Kate, still looking up at the unlit windows above.

"Ah, but what's this? We have an unlocked door and…is that a cry for help I hear?" asks Rachel, her hand on the old brass doorknob, the door suddenly lying three or four inches ajar, her ear cocked comically towards the imaginary source of sound.

Kate looks at her, a worried expression on her face.

"Forced? Or tampered with?" she asks, indicating the lock.

"No tool marks," replies Rachel, shining her flashlight on the lock and leaning down to inspect it.

Kate has a bad feeling about an unlocked door in this particular circumstance, whereas Rachel seems to see it as an open invitation; merely catching a break.

"You coming?" asks Rachel, one foot already planted on the scuffed, wooden boards inside the antiques shop.

"I don't know. Seems a little too easy," mutters Kate, following the detective all the same, since she's already disappeared inside.

* * *

"Watch your step," warns Rachel, quickly discovering the two-inch drop a few feet inside the store where the entryway platform steps down onto the main shop floor.

They explore the layout within, each guiding the ice-white center beam of their LED flashlights over walls and floors as they go, circling the long room, their backs to one another, eyes following the wider spill beam at the edge of each flashlight's pool of illumination as they progress deeper into the building, always on constant lookout for surprises.

"Hear anything?" whispers Rachel.

"No," replies Kate, stopping to pick up an old poster for an Antique Fair in Brooklyn that has fallen off the wall.

The dates for the weekend-long flea market read Sept 7-9 2001, just days before the 9/11 attacks on New York, Virginia and Pennsylvania. Kate wonders if those terrible events had anything to do with the reason the store was shuttered.

"Hey. Over here," hisses Rachel, her voice now just a sound on the end of a faint beam of light towards the back of the shop, since Kate can no longer make out the outline of her physical form.

She drops the faded poster back to the floor, hears it skidding away across the unvarnished boards as she makes her way towards the point of light up ahead.

"What is it?" she asks, finally catching up with Rachel in a small anteroom that leads to the back-shop.

There's a hiss from the pipes in a small closet bathroom, the elevated cistern and its long chain pull-flush both eerily fitting for a store of this nature.

"Used recently?" asks Kate, peering into the lidless toilet.

"God, I love this job," mutters Rachel, casting the beam from her flashlight down into the porcelain bowl.

The back of the bowl is stained a rusty brown color from years of drip, drip, dripping Manhattan water supply, and a ring of dirt borders the lower than normal 'high-tide' mark the water now reaches. A large, dead, grey-brown moth, wings spread wide, furry back still visible, coasts on top of the toilet water like a floating swimmer enjoying a day at the beach, the surface tension unbroken by its feather-light weightlessness.

"Eww," mutters Rachel, peering down at the large, dead insect.

"Yeah. No one's used that in a long time," notes Kate, stepping back out of the tiny bathroom to make her way along the narrow corridor into the back-shop.

There's a small kitchen with an abandoned dusty hotplate and empty, floral lined cabinets, their doors hanging open on sagging hinges, weighed down by layer upon layer of thick cream gloss paint. This small room backs onto a larger, shelved space that looks like a storeroom.

"All clear in here," whispers Kate, sweeping her beam high and wide to check the floors and ceilings for anything out of the ordinary.

"I think this is another dead end," she's in the throws of telling Rachel, when they both hear a distinctive thud from somewhere up above.

Rachel shines her flashlight upwards, so as not to blind herself, but giving enough light that Kate can see her face.

"Did you hear that or am I…" she trails off, swallowing hard.

"No. I definitely heard it too," Kate tells her, coming back down the narrow hallway, one hand on the butt of her weapon where it's nestled in her holster.

Rachel lowers her beam back onto the floor as they both retrace their steps.

"If there's somebody up there, how'd they even get—"

"Here. Look. Footprints," says Rachel, shining her light onto a line of scuffmarks that have disturbed the dusty layer covering the worn wooden boards.

"But they head straight into that wall," replies Kate, following the path of Rachel's flashlight with her own, her brow furrowed in bafflement.

Rachel reaches the vanishing point of the footprints and grips her flashlight with one hand while she uses her free hand to search for an answer to the puzzle they're facing.

"I can feel a draft," she tells Kate, her voice rising with excitement. "There's cold air coming in from whatever's behind this…ah-ha! A door!" she exclaims, poking her finger into a rough hole where an old, round doorknob has come free and then dropped out completely. Not even the spindle is left.

She crooks her finger upwards, managing to maintain enough purchase on the splintered wood to pull the door towards her. The hinges are surprisingly cooperative considering their age, and the door swings silently inwards towards them.

"What do you suppose is out there?" whispers Kate, now standing right by Rachel's shoulder, her extra height giving her a few inches of clear headspace above her female partner.

"Only one way to find out," she replies, angling her head toward the dark depths of the space beyond.

Rachel's blond hair is the only thing reflecting any light once they move out into the hallway beyond the store. They quickly hit a wall that forces them sharp right, placing them at the bottom of a set of wooden stairs.

"Up or down?" hisses Rachel, since the steps peel off in both directions.

"Noise came from upstairs," Kate points out, aiming her flashlight at the first few treads.

"Footprints also lead down there," counters Rachel, shining her own beam over the scuffed, dusty marks that lead to the basement level below.

"Split up?" suggests Kate, wincing, as she wonders if that is in any way a good idea, since it sounds so dumb even to her own ears; like the classic bad call a couple of hysterical teens would make while being hunted down by something incredibly evil at a remote farmhouse in some low-budget slasher movie. "Okay, forget the splitting up thing," adds Kate, quickly. "I changed my mind."

"What?" Rachel immediately argues back. "No. Look, it'll be fine. We're both armed and it'll be faster that way. You go up and I'll go down there."

"We're talking about Jerry Tyson here, Rachel," Kate points out.

"We're in a abandoned building, Kate. Even the construction workers have left the job. We just need to clear it room by room and then get out of here. Rick's probably long gone, if he even came here in the first place."

Kate doesn't like the idea one bit, but she does want to get out as fast as they can, so she agrees for expediency sake.

The last glimpse she gets of Rachel is of her blond bob swinging as she disappears down below, right before the darkness swallows her up.

* * *

Kate adjusts the setting on her flashlight before she makes her way up the wooden stairs, narrowing the beam from flood focus to spot focus and dimming the brightness so as not to give her location away if there is someone up there. Then she eases her gun out of its retention holster.

The steps are steep, the risers deeper than normal and she has to adjust her gait to stop from tripping on her way up to the second floor. These stairs from the store below are an internal set, which open out on the opposite end of the hallway from the main, communal staircase that gives access to each subsequent level; a set of stairs the building's owners might have used for themselves, Kate supposes.

The first floor that she clears fully holds no surprises. All the apartment doors, four in total, are unlocked. Some have even been left ajar. There are numerous signs of a renovation project started but left abandoned at some point in the recent past; probably in the last five or so years. The old bathroom and kitchen fittings have been ripped out so that exposed lead piping pokes out through holes in the walls like accusatory fingers. Rolled up bales of cracked lino and dirty, rotten carpeting lie in bundles at dangerously random junctures along the hallway, forcing Kate to take extra care over where she steps.

Up on the next level, she jumps violently when she enters the first apartment and a nesting pigeon startles, flying upwards towards her, beating its wings frantically before it rushes out into the night through the missing window it entered by. The air is slightly sweet smelling, musty and sour in this room, as if something has died in here. The floorboards seem spongy and damp closer to the open window where the elements have taken their toll. Kate makes a quick efficient sweep of each room and then hurries on, her nerves beginning to shred, adrenalin flooding her system.

Three more apartments later, and she's ready to tackle the floor above, when she hears a loud noise down below; as if something heavy has just fallen over and hit a wall.

She freezes.

* * *

The decision to go after her partner is not a difficult one; in fact it's ingrained, instinctual. So she turns around and hurries back down the wooden stairs, trying to make as little noise as she can.

Kate sweeps the street level they parted ways on, but finds only the narrow matchboard lined corridor and the old door back into the shop, all silent and empty. She's listening intently for signs of movement when another noise rises from the basement level below, sending the nerve endings on her back, neck and scalp wild, as if a swarm of tiny insects are crawling all the way up her spine. The sound is the unmistakable whimper of a woman as she begs for her life.

Kate hurtles down the stairs into the darkness, hanging onto the smooth wooden handrail the entire way as her boots make more noise than she'd like on the uncarpeted wooden treads. When she hits the bottom, she stops in amazement. The space down here is huge and cavernous compared to the small cramped rooms upstairs. Walls have been removed at some point in the past and the open space stretches beyond the scope of her flashlight beam, which catches now and again on the regularly spaced support columns that bear the weight of the floor above.

"Kate!"

She hears Rachel's voice coming from the far right, over towards one of the newsprint-covered windows, so she heads towards the sound. She finds her partner slumped on the floor, propped up again the wall. Her flashlight is lying close by but out of reach and she's clutching her arm.

"What happened?" hisses Kate, turning off one of the flashlights to make them less vulnerable.

"He's here," whispers Rachel, gripping the edge of Kate's jacket with her free hand.

"Who, _Tyson_?"

Rachel nods, eyes scanning the darkness for signs of movement.

"He has a knife. Surprised me, knocked my gun out of my hand. Kate I didn't even hear him until he was on me," she stresses, looking scared for the first time ever that Kate has witnessed.

"Where's your gun? Did he take it?"

"No. I don't think so. I heard it skid somewhere over there," she tells Kate, pointing in the general direction the gun fell.

Kate shines her flashlight across the floor, quickly locating the missing firearm and she scrambles to fetch it before it can be used against either of them.

"What did he do to you, say to you?" asks Kate, her mind running at a million miles an hour. "And where the _hell_ did the bastard go?"

She's sweating now, too hot under her leather jacket. The textured grip of her own weapon feels tacky in her damp palm, her other hand is coated with gritty dirt from the unswept basement floor, and the rough wooden boards dig sharply into her knees.

"I was clearing the floor…Kate, this place is _huge_. He appeared out of no where. I heard something move on the stairs behind me. It was too soon for you to be coming down from upstairs, so I thought maybe a rat. But then I the caught the flash of a knife blade in the spread beam from my Stinger and before I could react, he knocked my gun and the flashlight out of my hands and then he slashed me."

"Let me see your arm," whispers Kate, peeling Rachel's sleeve back to reveal a three-inch gash on her left forearm.

Blood has seeped through into the white of her shirt, but the cut isn't too deep and he hasn't struck any arteries.

"It's just a flesh wound. You okay to stand?" asks Kate, and when Rachel nods she helps her up.

"Do you have any idea which direction he went? How big is this place?" asks Kate, sending her light beam in a narrow arc around them, trying to get a feel for the layout.

"I don't know. The same footprint as the building above, I guess. But they took so many walls down it seems bigger."

"Rachel, I need you to concentrate for me, okay? Can you remember _anything_ after Tyson slashed your arm? Anything he _said_ or did that might tell us—"

"He kicked me to the floor, held the knife to my throat for a few seconds and then he just suddenly pulled back, said he had bigger fish to fry."

"What?"

"Just that. Before he left me lying here, he said that he had bigger fish to fry, and then he mumbled some crazy talk."

"What was the crazy talk, exactly?"

"A line from that poem he wrote you, I think. You know, the one in his note."

"Which line, Rachel? Which line?"

"Eh…something about prey."

"Think!" urges Kate, trying to run the twisted piece of poetry back in her own mind, blanking out every time she gets past the first line about the blade and crimson-purple flow. The knife he has with him tonight is no coincidence, she's pretty sure.

"_And all the while…uh…the prey will howl? _Yeah, something like that. I forget the—"

"_Before they crumple; greet the mud, A taut and unbelieving jowl?" _adds Kate, to vigorous nodding from Rachel.

"Yes. But what does it—"

"It means we need to find Castle before Tyson does. Can you walk?" asks Kate.

"Sure."

"Handle your gun?"

"Yeah. But I really think we should call for backup now."

Kate looks torn.

"If Tyson is as intent on killing Rick as you think he is, whether he has an illegal firearm or not is gonna be immaterial now, Kate," argues Rachel.

"Fine. Call it in. But we manage this thing between us, okay?" asks Kate, looking to Rachel for the ultimate in support and loyalty.

"Whatever you need. I've got your back. Both of you," she promises. "We just need to get this guy."

"Okay. I'll take the right side, you take the left and we'll work our way West."

* * *

Rachel calls Esposito, keeps it short, offering scant detail other than the address and Tyson's presence, and then they move, the search too urgent to postpone while Tyson is down here somewhere on the loose, armed with a lethal weapon. They split the floor space between them, keeping pace with one another, maintaining a slow, steady sweep of the basement area with their guns raised, flashlights braced beneath their weapons, the beam turned down low.

Rachel's forearm is still bleeding, but she ignores the sharp burn and the unpleasant sensation of cool, wet cotton sticking to her skin to keep her mind focused on the job.

Eventually, they both hit a wall where what was once a large storage space for the shop above comes to an end. They edge along the wall to meet in the middle in front of a long corridor that has several doors leading off on either side.

"What now?" asks Rachel. "Do we wait?"

Kate is on the point of telling her that she will go in first, and to cover her, when they hear the first shot ring out.

"Shit! Stay behind me," instructs Kate, taking point as she switches off her flashlight and begins to edge down the hall.

They get to the first door, which is a couple of inches ajar, and Kate flattens herself back against the wall, drawing a short breath before pointing her gun into the gap, following on with a quick jab and retreat of her head to get a snapshot view inside. What she sees stumps her completely.

Behind the door is a neat little living room with teal velvet sofas, mahogany end tables and the kind of ornate, exotic, Oriental rug that she's heard Castle refer to as a 'magic carpet'. The room is setup as if someone lives down here, although like all the windows on this side of the building, the glass is covered with sheets of newsprint obscuring the basement from the street above.

The room is unoccupied, so Kate quickly moves on, gesturing silently for Rachel to do the same.

They clear the opposite side of the hallway – a pretty, though old-fashioned bedroom, decked out in the same style as the living room, with a brass bedframe, antique hand-stitched quilt and an old fashioned dresser sitting in the corner. Kate is just withdrawing from the doorway when the sound of voices reaches them - one male voice and one other that could be female.

"Next door down," whispers Kate, edging sideways, like a crab, along the hall.

"Detective Beckett?" comes Tyson's taunting, sing-song voice, ringing out into the darkness. "I know you're out there. Why don't you come on in and join the party?"

Kate freezes.

"Don't come in. He's armed!" yells a frightened female voice that Kate thinks could be Jessie Calman's.

A scream rings out when Tyson strikes the woman hard across the face, the sound of the slap so loud in the quiet of this underground bunker.

Kate takes a step forward, but Rachel grabs a hold of her jacket in an effort to restrain her.

"Think about it," hisses Rachel. "It's a trap. He's setting a trap," she warns.

* * *

Just as Kate is about to shake Rachel off, a figure materializes further down the hall, tall and dark, the leather of his coat catching the spill beam of her flashlight when she closes her right eye and flicks it on for a second. The leather shines again when Kate re-sites her weapon and the light, training both onto the mystery figure.

Stepping out from the deep shadow, forearms raised at a forty-five degree angle, weapon pointed towards the ceiling, is none other than Richard Castle. He looks directly at Kate, his expression grave, emotionless, and then he slowly shakes his head.

Before Kate can say or do anything, he flicks his eyes away from her face, glancing through the open door where a feeble light spills out into the corridor.

Castle raises one finger to his lips to indicate that Kate should remain silent, and then he points at her and holds his hand up, telling her to stay where she is, just as Tyson calls out to her again.

"Hey, Beckett? What's keeping you? Come meet your destiny, detective," he yells, adding, "You know you want to," in the most sickeningly taunting, playground tone.

Kate can hear whimpering now, a terrified sobbing that continues unabated no matter the threats and promises Tyson barks out to quell the noise within.

The advantage is with Castle, his view a clear one of the open doorway. Kate's view is that of the door itself, since the hinges lie on Castle's side of the wall and the room opens out in front of him. She's about to attempt to by-pass the door altogether to get over on his side of the gap, when Tyson speaks again, his threat laced with unadulterated menace with time.

"Time's up, detective. First pretty sister loses an eye," he says, with stomach-churning levity, and Kate hears two women cry out for certain this time, both begging him to spare them.

She sees Castle twitch, his response lightening fast as he eases out from his flattened position against the hallway wall.

"_Tyson!_" he bellows, extending his arms to point his weapon through the open door. "Drop it! Drop the knife."

Tyson spins towards him and Castle sees the look of surprise on his face quickly morph to one of sickening pleasure, a smile of utter contentment spreading his mouth wide.

"I said drop it," repeats Castle, his stance firm and unwavering, just as Tyson begins a sickening recitation of the poem, _'Premeditation'_ at the top of his voice with the knife blade poised an inch from Jessie Calman's eye, a fistful of her hair tightly screwed in his fist as he controls her terrified, shaking head.

"_Oh blade you'll warm tonight! Awash in crimson-purple flows, Your sheen will dull with aching fle—"_

Kate's brain registers the upcoming chain of events before they even happen. And she yells out to him.

"_Castle, no!_"

She sees the first shot, knows what she's witnessing by sound and feel, rather than sight, since it all happens in the blink of an eye – the flash as the bullet exits the barrel and the empty shell casing is ejected out and to the right. She feels the concussion rather than hears the noise of the shot, her ears muted by the adrenaline reaction, her vision narrowed to a tapered tunnel of focus. The slight upwards recoil in his wrists and rapid recovery on target is clearly evident. He holds firm with his arms and his stance. She screams at him a second time as he takes aim and fires two more rounds with an effortless double-tap that speaks volumes about those hours spent at the range while she's been gone.

And then silence.

* * *

Her ears are ringing, her jaw is hanging open and somewhere beyond the door she hears the thud of a body dropping to the ground, and then the petrified whimpering starts up again.

Rachel is round her, past her and kicking the door wide before Kate can even move, her weapon raised.

Kate's feet are frozen, her eyes locked on the man in front of her - the man in black with the resolute jaw and the glittering eyes of navy blue, hard case steel. She knows that he has this capacity for darkness inside him, has witnessed it once before, but still it stuns her to see how this gentle, loving, lighthearted man can turn. He's breathing a little heavily now in response to his exertion - rhythmic, deep breaths through his nose - but his hands remain rock steady as he releases the magazine from the Glock. He keeps the pistol pointed in a safe direction, expertly racks the slide, ejecting the unspent round from the chamber, locks the slide open, turns the gun sideways, holding it by the muzzle so it isn't pointing at either of them, and then he hands it to her, relinquishing it to her care wordlessly.

Kate accepts the firearm, tucks her own gun back into its holster, then she clicks her flashlight on, handing it over to him in silent exchange, before by-passing Castle to go and help Rachel.

She begins by removing Tyson's own gun from his body; the weapon he used to discharge a shot into the ceiling, the weapon he used to reel them in. Then she sets about releasing the two women from their bindings. He had them strapped to a pair of upright chairs, and now they're too quiet all of a sudden, both going into understandable shock after everything they have just witnessed and suffered through. Kate calls for an ambulance and urges them to sit and wait in the meantime. Both women ignore her, preferring to stand of their own free will. And she wonders how many hours of abuse they have endured over the last few days at Tyson's hand to make them need to do that - reassert their own authority when they must be exhausted to the bone.

When she turns around, her partner is bent over, the muzzle of her own Glock pressed against Tyson's sternum, while her fingers dance over his throat as she checks for a pulse. Were it anyone but him, death would be a certainty, since all three of Castle's rounds having found a home in the serial killer's chest and abdomen. But this is Jerry Tyson, a man who has managed to resurrect himself more effectively that Lazarus. So she checks and she double checks and if it weren't for the story she'd have to concoct for her report and the M.E. to justify the subdermal bruising that would appear on his wrists if she restrained him right now, she briefly considers cuffing him postmortem just to be certain.

She quickly closes his eyelids, and when she rises stiffly, she turns to Kate and shakes her head. The silence in the room is overwhelming.

"Are you sure?" asks Kate, her voice tight with tension. "Are you _absolutely_ sure that he's dead?" she repeats, her eyes never wavering from the body lying prone on the ground.

Rachel nods. "He's not coming back from that. Not this time," she adds, running one bloodstained hand through her hair.

* * *

Rachel immediately turns to look for Castle. The writer is hovering in the doorway, watching the scene, his expression guarded and emotionless. Rounding on him suddenly, she thumps him hard in the chest with the heel of her hand.

"You reckless _fuck!_" she yells, shoving him backwards, _hard._

Castle takes her abuse, doesn't react at all other than blinking when she strikes him. When Rachel pushes him a second time, Kate steps in between them.

"Crime scene," she says, quietly, taking Rachel by the elbow and leading her back into the room. "The guys will be here any minute. We need to get this straightened out."

Castle enters the room at this point. The two sisters are both holding onto one another, their faces streaked with dirt, tears and the remnants of their ruined makeup, giving them a tragic, horrific appearance.

"It was a good shoot," he argues, getting in between the two cops. "I had a unobstructed view, clear shot, and he had a knife an inch from that woman's face," he says, indicating Jessie, who nods vigorously in agreement with Castle's statement.

"Outside," says Kate, sharply, thrusting both Rachel and Castle out ahead of her into the corridor.

"It might be a good shoot, given what _we_ know. But you're a _civilian_, Castle. He wasn't threatening you directly," points out Kate. "It'll be hard to find a D.A. who will argue self-defense under those circumstances."

"I gave him two chances, Beckett. You heard me. _Clear verbal warning_, isn't that how it goes? He was going to cut her, take her eye out. And he had a _gun_, Kate."

"Castle, you don't _know_ that for sure," argues Kate, turning in a freaked-out little circle, her arms hugged around her body, which is suddenly ice-cold and trembling.

He looks at her, his face melting from stoic to wounded to an expression crumbled with defeat. "So that's it? He wins again?" he asks, his voice utterly exhausted.

"Not if I have anything to do with it, _no_," says Kate, determinedly, getting her professional head back on. "I'll…I'll say that _I_ shot him, if I have to. Yes. It all went down exactly as you just described only we swap places, understood?"

Castle gives her a soft, pitying look and then he shakes his head slowly.

"Officer involved shooting? No way. I.A.B. will get involved. And the second they do a GSR test they'll find out you didn't fire that gun. Come on, Beckett. You're not getting in trouble over my actions. No way. I made a clear, sound choice, and I would do it again. I stand by my statement. He was going to hurt her. He had a lethal weapon. I had to do something."

"Yeah, something. But deadly force?" asks Kate, her eyes meeting his with a pleading regret. She hates that he'll have this in his conscience forever.

* * *

Rachel chooses this moment to throw in her five cents worth.

"Your loyalty to one another is touching," she says, witheringly. "But it's gonna end up with both of you doing jail time if you're not careful…for the terrible lying alone. Let me deal with this," she says, taking Castle's Glock away from Kate. "He's not even supposed to be anywhere _near_ this case, and he's carrying a…_what?_ What is this? Is this even licensed?" Rachel asks Castle, holding up the gun.

He nods, toes the floor. "But I don't have a carry permit," he admits.

"_Jesus, Rick!_" exclaims Rachel, stamping her foot in frustration.

"Right, here's what we do," says Kate, calmly. "We were out together, all three of us. We heard screaming coming from inside the building, since we did, right? Eventually," she says to Rachel, who nods reluctantly. "The door was unlocked, and so we fanned out. I went upstairs, you two came down here. It was dark, Tyson stabbed you and knocked you to the ground. Then he took off. We pursued him together down in the basement. I gave you the gun when we heard a shot being fired," Kate tells Castle.

"But…" protests Castle, seeing the first hole open up in this story, since the gun is actually registered to him.

"No. No buts. You don't get to write the ending here, Castle. This affects all of us, so you listen and you do it _our_ way. Understood?"

Castle stares at Kate, his jaw working hard, clenching and unclenching, giving new definition to his face, his deadly serious, tortured face.

"You think anyone will believe we just went out together for a night stroll and what…a little mu shu pork over in Chinatown?" asks Rachel. "With that nutcase on the loose?"

"I think we don't have a choice right now. If we stick to our version…maybe it'll be fine. But you get me written proof to show exactly how you knew about this place," she tells Castle. "I don't need a source, just the paperwork, the city records, legal documents, whatever you paid this…this _Harry_ character to find for you. Understand?"

Castle looks a little surprised that she knows Harry's name, but he doesn't stop to ask her how she came by that information.

"Are you actually saying I did the wrong thing here?" he asks her, looking hurt and wounded. "That we should have just let him go on terrorising us?"

"No," says Kate, grabbing the sleeve of his jacket as he attempts to walk away from her. "No. We both know what he is…_was_ capable of. If you hadn't ended it here, tonight…" she shakes her head. "He more or less went down without a fight when you think about it."

"He smiled at me," confirms Castle. "When I told him to stop, he…he just smiled at me."

"He forced you to kill him is what he did. Probably figured you'll have that on your conscience for the rest of your life. It's just another attempt to ruin you."

"Final act of vengeance?" says Castle, and Kate nods.

"But it amounts to kill or be killed in my book," says Kate, giving his arm a reassuring squeeze. "He was coming after us at some point. Today you made a stand. You took your life back, Castle. Look at it that way."

"Or lost us both our jobs," chips in Rachel, as the sound of multiple sets of feet running on the wooden floor above greets their ears, accompanied by the whoop-whoop of several sirens on the street outside.

"Get him out of here," Rachel tells Kate. "Make sure Espo or Ryan take his statement. But whatever you do, keep him the hell away from Gates and Shaw," she adds, quickly turning away from them to begin attending to Jessie and Sarah.

* * *

_A/N: So, any thoughts? Sorry that took a while. These scenes are difficult to write. My thanks to fbobs for the firearms advice and to CB for reading several unedited versions as I knocked it into shape. Liv_


	34. Chapter 34 - Confession Time

_**Chapter 34: Confession Time**_

Kate and Castle stand alone in a corner near the stairs as floods of people begin to fill the once empty basement with the ceaseless chatter and physical noise of serious people going about serious business.

"Get me some arc lights down here or call Con Ed and tell them to turn the power back on," Kate hears Jordan Shaw bark at some poor, unfortunate Joe Schmo of a Uniform who happens to be standing nearby, guarding the scene.

Ryan appears at Kate's elbow, hovering anxiously from foot to foot.

"Do…do you guys need a minute or…?" he asks, hesitantly looking at Kate first and then at Castle, whose mouth is set into a grim line, his hands clenched into fists where they hang heavily by his sides.

Kate nods a Ryan.

"Just give us a second and then if you wouldn't mind taking Castle's statement. Rachel has the…the uh…gun. You'll find three rounds missing from the magazine. Every one was on target. No strays," she adds, feeling a strange sense of pride as she passes on this information. "Make sure CSU collect the shell casings. They should all be out in the hallway right by the door to…to the room where he was holding the two sisters. Then get everything over to ballistics would you? Handle it personally for me, Ryan?" she adds, giving him a meaningful look.

Ryan nods and leaves them alone for a minute or two.

* * *

"Hey," says Kate, tugging on Castle's sleeve and leading him right over to the window away from the hubbub. "I know this all seems…God, this is hard," she says, dropping her head into her hands.

Castle reaches out, lays a hand on her shoulder, and she grasps ahold of his jacket, bringing him closer.

The warmth of his body calls out to her, drawing her to him. When he pulls her into a tight hug, she lets him, goes willingly, forgets all about protocol and professionalism for once. She just lets her body tip into his, allows herself to be loved and comforted this time, since it's finally over – their own personal nightmare – ended by this good man's gentle hand.

Castle kisses the top of her head and then quickly lets go, putting a more appropriate distance between them.

"I'll give my statement. But there's no way you're taking any flak for this, Kate. You have a career to protect. I won't let you," he insists.

"_Screw_ my career!" she exclaims, immediately lowering her voice when several people turn to stare. "Castle, have you not been listening to a word I said these past few days? You're my _partner_, you're my—"

She stares at him, all out of words to describe what they are now; no longer on solid ground where their relationship is concerned.

He doesn't help her out, doesn't jump in with an answer to ease the moment or throw her any kind of verbal lifeline. So she lets it go, since they have bigger, more pressing issues to worry about right now.

"Give me the extra magazine," she says, quietly, turning her back on the room to face the window.

"What?" asks Castle, turning with her, his face a picture of poorly masked surprise.

"The spare magazine you brought with you. Give it to me," she mutters.

"How did you—" he asks, before thinking better of it; giving up his poor line in pretense to withdraw the fully loaded magazine from his coat pocket and surreptitiously slip it to her.

"Federal Hydra-Shoks?" she hisses, giving him a sideways glare. "You know I use Speer. Couldn't you at least have stuck with the same ammo? And do you pay no attention to the law? Did you learn _nothing_ following me around?" she asks harshly, her agitation driven by residual fear, she knows, though she finds herself unable to stop herself from berating him, even now. "_Seven rounds max_ for self-defense in New York, Castle. You _know_ that."

"How are you going to—?"

"Your magazine fits my gun. So…so, I'll say that I came prepared when we decided to check out this address. We've both been under a lot of pressure with Tyson out there practically stalking us. That note he left was a clear threat. The things he did to you when he held you captive…"

"And you," Castle points out, vehemently, giving her a sharp glance.

"We've both been seeing Burke, getting help. It's not a stretch to believe I might have been a little jumpy, brought extra protection along. But you did _not_ come here seeking some kind of vigilante justice," she warns him. "That evil bastard put you behind bars once already, Castle. No way am I watching it happen a second time. So, I don't want to hear another word about you doing this by yourself, do you understand? Or we are _over_…for good," she tells him, her body vibrating with so much anger and fear now that the flood of adrenalin is ebbing out of her system.

Kate abruptly turns away from him, calls Ryan over and leaves Castle to his care.

* * *

"So, you finally got him. Congratulations," drawls Jordan Shaw, appearing at Kate's elbow while she stands outside the small living room she came across earlier, just staring vacantly at the scene inside.

It's like a museum piece, a set from the 1950's, so historically accurate that Kate almost expects to find a red velvet rope strung across the door barring entry, along with a plaque on the wall describing the contents.

She turns when Jordan speaks to her and she nods, a ghost of a smile lifting her lips for the barest second before they flatline again.

"Doesn't feel as good as you imagined it would though, does it?" observes Jordan, hitting the nail on the head as usual. "The fantasy rarely matches up to reality in these things," she adds, drawing a surprised stare from Kate. "Oh, come on. Don't pretend you haven't dreamt up a hundred different horrible endings for that guy as you tried to fall asleep at night."

"That's beside the point," argues Kate, crossing her arms and turning away from the homage to a bygone era.

"So, then what is the point?" asks Jordan, genuinely intrigued.

"Castle didn't have a choice," replies Kate. "_That's_ the point. Tyson was going to disfigure Jessie Calman, maybe even kill her. He held that knife an inch away from her face, wouldn't back down. And now he's gone. But…but he _drove_ what happened to him, he _controlled _everything right up to the end. So, of course it doesn't mean I get to like it. Especially not for Castle."

"Good job you came prepared," notes Jordan, arching one eyebrow knowingly, as she watches Kate's face intently, her own smile broader, cleverer, more catlike.

"What do you—?" stutters Kate.

"Bringing that extra piece? Good call," nods Jordan, patting her on the arm, before walking away when Danny Munro calls to her from further down the corridor.

Kate is left standing alone, stunned, staring at the wall wondering what the hell just happened.

* * *

Kate calls Martha as soon as she can, explaining briefly that she tracked Castle down, that he's safe and that Tyson is dead, without going into any detail at this stage. Then she asks Martha to listen carefully as she tells her that she wants her to forget everything she's seen and heard over the last few days in relation to Castle's private investigation of the case with this mysterious Harry character, as well as everything the pair of them discussed tonight at the loft before she left. Martha hesitates for a mere second before agreeing to this request, though Kate can hear the worry and confusion in her voice. Kate thanks her politely and then she hangs up, after promising to keep her informed of any developments and urging her to get some sleep.

They are separated for a couple of hours. Rachel and Kate give their statements to Esposito and Gates respectively once they are no longer needed at the crime scene. A paramedic cleaned and dressed Rachel's arm at the Elizabeth Street address, advising her that the gash would need a couple of stitches to close it up. But Rachel insisted on going to the Precinct to give her statement first while things were still fresh in her mind. Once the formalities were over, Kelly came by to pick her up and take her to the Emergency Room for treatment.

Castle sits in Interrogation Room 1 with Ryan, hugging a rapidly cooling mug of coffee in both hands while Ryan takes him back over his written statement for a second time, checking and rechecking every detail. Kate stands outside the glass watching them both once she's free, her fingers touching the one-way screen right next to Castle's head.

The hands on the clock stutter past one in the morning when Ryan and Castle finally rise from the small, metal table, their chairs scraping loudly across the vinyl-tiled floor.

Castle seems surprised to find Kate waiting for him out in the observation room. His head bobs up, he squares him slumped shoulders and attempts a half-hearted smile.

"You ready to go?" she asks him, giving Ryan a pat on the back as the three of them walk out into the bullpen together.

The Precinct is quiet, only a couple of night shift detectives sitting at their desks going over forensics from a seemingly random shooting in Alphabet City. Kate had listened to them talking to one another before she went to stand outside interrogation, their analysis of the case so blissfully free of any personal entanglement. She longs to be back on cases like that, where she was neither the victim nor a target nor in anyway involved in the dispatch of the killer.

She desperately wants a simpler way of life.

Gates appears at her office door just as they are gathering up their things to go home.

"I'll be going over these statements in the morning once they're all typed up and collated," she tells Kate, waving a sheaf of papers in her hand. "I'd like to see you in here at ten. My office. You too, Mr. Castle," she tells the writer, who nods at her resignedly. "Now, go home and get some sleep," she tells them all, just a grain of softness in her voice to buff away at the harsh edges of her words.

* * *

They don't speak in the cab on the way back to the loft. Kate stares out of the side window, the back of her hand pressed to her mouth as she leans against the door letting her mind drift. She watches lights zip past them in a blur without forcing her eyes to focus on any of the detail. People will be out on the streets tonight, as they are every night, intent on mischief, murder and mayhem, and sometimes that knowledge gets too weighty to bear. Tonight is one of those nights. So she just lets go the reins for a change, and allows the world outside to whiz by.

Castle seems more alert, edgy, as he fidgets in the seat next to her: clasping and unclasping his hands, his knees rammed up against the divider in front. She vaguely hears the springs beneath the dark pleather seat creaking in protest as he shifts continually, unable to get comfortable. When they were together as a couple, she would have told him to stop squirming, to sit still, might even have distracted him a little to relax his mind and body. Tonight she doesn't feel as if she has the right or the words to do any of those things, so she lets his antsy behavior go.

The loft is blessedly silent and empty when they get home, Martha and Alexis already fast asleep upstairs.

Castle heads straight for the liquor cabinet without even taking his coat off.

"Want one?" he asks, picking up a bottle of Scotch and fishing around for a heavy-bottomed, double old-fashioned glass.

"No. What I need right now is sleep and so do you," insists Kate, taking the glass out of his hand and placing it back down. "We'll need clear heads tomorrow," she reminds him, walking off towards the bedroom without looking back.

* * *

Kate is unbuttoning her shirt when Castle finally comes into the bedroom. Her dusty jeans are already in the laundry hamper, her leather jacket cast off onto a chair, one sleeve flopping lifelessly over the arm as if it too is exhausted.

Castle almost averts his eyes when he sees her standing at the bottom of the bed in just her underwear, the placket on the front of her shirt swiftly parting to reveal her bra and taut stomach as she divests herself of this last piece of outer clothing. Her feet are bare and her legs stretch upwards for miles.

"I should…are you…?" he stammers, holding a glass of water in one hand, while he gestures back over his shoulder with the other, offering to leave the room she thinks, though he's being so inarticulate that she's not entirely sure.

"Get ready for bed, Castle," she tells him, walking past him to go over to the dresser to fetch some night things to sleep in.

When he hesitates some more she looks back round, her eyes meeting his in something of a challenge. So, he nods once, and then walks to his night stand to put the water glass down, before heading off to the closet to deal with his own clothing.

Kate uses the bathroom. Too tired to shower, she simply washes her face and hands and brushes her teeth before returning to the bedroom. She needs to be near him tonight, knows it's the only way she stands any chance of sleeping. But she doesn't know if he will want her there, and she can't find the energy to ask him outright. So, at the risk of being rejected, she just climbs into bed, claiming her own spot, and waits for him to reappear.

Castle emerges from the closet wearing a plain, dark t-shirt and navy boxer shorts. He skids to a halt in the middle of the bedroom floor to stare at Kate – tucked up under the comforter, leaning back against the headboard, her eyes already closed. She looks like a gift propped up in his bed, and he for one is not about to question it, no matter that questions are the only things filling up his brain right now as the impact of Tyson's demise begins to hit him with full force.

When he comes back out of the bathroom, he turns all of the lights out and literally crawls into bed, his body suddenly so heavy, every nerve and fiber aching from the tension his muscles have carried for days on end.

* * *

Kate shifts under the covers once he's in beside her, the sheets whispering as she slides down the mattress, pulling her pillows with her, and then she angles her body towards him.

"You did a brave, stupid thing tonight, Castle," she whispers in the dark, after he has settled himself down on his back beside her.

"It's over," he whispers back, turning his head to look in her direction.

"Is it?" she asks, letting out a long, slow sigh of a breath.

"Yes. He's dead. We have to put it behind us. Move on," says Castle, his tone flat, emotionless and matter of fact.

"Can you do that?" asks Kate, snuggling further into her pillow, interested in his take on how to handle this.

"I don't have a choice. I either put it behind me or I let it haunt me for the rest of my life. That's what he wanted when he refused to back down. Why should I give him the satisfaction?"

"I know you," Kate tells him, leaning up on one elbow. "Don't pretend that you're not hurting, Castle," she warns him. "Don't lock your feelings away until it eats you from the inside out. I've been there. I've done that. It doesn't help to deny the power these things can have over us."

"I'm not letting him win here, Kate. No way," he assures her, rolling onto his side so that they are face-to-face. "I refuse to dwell on what happened, to let myself become one of his victims. And you shouldn't either," he warns her, rolling away onto his back, seemingly ending the discussion.

* * *

"They say the best revenge is a life well lived," Kate comments, after a few minutes of gentle silence.

"Yeah, well, I intend to live more than well, I can assure you," he replies, brittly, and Kate wishes she knew what he meant by that, whether his future plans include her anymore or whether she has missed her window to fix things.

"We should sleep," she mumbles, stifling a yawn, knowing how ill advised it would be to get into any of that tonight.

"Thank you," replies Castle, suddenly, turning back towards her.

"What for?" asks Kate, mystified.

"What _for_? For coming back here in the first place. For wanting to cover for me, for trying to protect me. Kate, you've put your career…maybe even your whole future on the line by covering my ass over that gun. It was stupid of me to go there alone tonight, armed, and to poke around the case without telling you what I was doing, what I found out."

Somehow his confession comes easier in the dark when he can't see her eyes on him – angry or understanding, fierce or loving, cold or pitying, whatever their emotions may be. He likes things better this way – a chance to bare his soul to her from within the cleansing, equalizing shroud of darkness.

"Yes. It was," she agrees, struggling to a sitting position if they're hashing this out right now.

Castle hears her move, stretching over to flick the lamp on by her side, and he reaches out to stop her.

"Don't," he whispers, his hand landing on bare skin at her waist where her sweatshirt had ridden up.

He recoils instantly, but Kate won't have it, and she chases after him, rolling onto her other side and then sliding her arm across his middle, bringing her palm to rest on his stomach.

"Talk to me," she urges, pressing her cheek against his shoulder. "Castle, please? Explain to me what you were thinking?"

Because she knows that he is curious by nature, has seen so many examples of his dogged determination to follow the story over the years, to dig for answers even when he knew that she didn't want him to. But this is different – going armed to hunt a man down, if that's what he did, is a whole new layer of cunning and darkness she wasn't aware existed before tonight.

* * *

He remains rigid for a few more seconds, but then gradually she feels him relax beneath her arm and the warm press of her cheek at his back.

"I wasn't able to protect you from him," he says, his voice suddenly hoarse and broken.

"That's not your job," she whispers, pressing her lips to his shoulder and then rubbing her nose across his shirt.

"Then whose job is it, Kate?" he asks, and she realizes from his tone that he isn't talking about NYPD or Federal Kate here. He's talking about the woman he loved enough to propose to before she dumped him and ran.

"I couldn't even protect myself," he laments, carrying on without waiting for her to answer.

"So you thought you'd…what? Take revenge by yourself?"

"The longer he was out there the more it gnawed at me - what he did to you, to us, to all those other women. It looked like he was going to get a way with it again, Kate. I just couldn't stand by and do nothing."

"But to go after him by yourself?" she asks, shaking her head, her cheek bumping his bicep again and again.

He surprises her with his next question when he asks, "Do you think I'm some kind of monster?", turning over so that they are facing again.

Kate resettles her hand on his side, smooths her fingers over his shirt, recognizing how important it is that she doesn't in any way pull back from him right now.

"I…I think you did the right thing tonight, given the situation we were faced with, and I think the law will be on your side. You were assisting a police officer. The law allows the use of deadly force when a third party's life is under threat. He was a fugitive, a serial murderer with outstanding warrants, so…yeah. Apart from the gun, we're covered."

"Is that why you and Rachel were so angry with me?" he asks, drawing his knees up until they brush against hers.

Neither of them pull away.

"I was scared, Rick. I'm sure she was too. I don't want this for you. That's why we need to stick rigidly to our version of events. You get me proof of that address. We went there to investigate the lead. I took your gun along in case we needed backup because you're more familiar handling it. And _I _was the one who loaded it with seventeen rounds, not you. We found the shop door unlocked when we got there and then we went inside."

"What if they fingerprint the unused bullets or the magazine? You never handled those," he argues.

Kate sighs, because this is a weakness in their story she hopes never to have to address.

"Both of our prints will be on the gun. You fired three times. And they'll find three matching slugs in Tyson's body when they do the autopsy. Cause of death should be straightforward. I see no need for them to examine the unused bullets. They probably won't even ask about the extra ammo."

Castle falls silent for a second or two before he speaks again.

"You didn't answer my question?" he points out.

"Hmm?" murmurs Kate, feeling herself drift off for a second, her body coming too with a little start at the sound of his voice. "What? What question?"

"Do you think I'm—"

"A _monster?_ No. No, _never_," she assures him, leaning in to press a tentative kiss to his cheek, before slipping both arms around his neck and drawing him close to her.

They lie like this for several minutes, drifting, their limbs touching where they've stretched out beneath the sheets to get nearer to one another.

* * *

"Just promise me you won't ever do anything like that again?" she asks, realizing as the words come out of her mouth that she asked him to make a similar promise to her once before when he got back from Paris with Alexis. He agreed then and still he broke it tonight.

"Oh, Kate…" he sighs.

"I mean it, Castle. You have no idea how serious this is if you won't promise me that. You could have been looking at serious jail time if Rachel and I hadn't shown up at that address. And if you won't do it for me, then think about Alexis and Martha. What it would do to them? We can't be partners anymore, couldn't ever work together again if I can't trust you not to go rogue every time you get shut out of a case."

He feels petulant at being told off again, almost lashes out spitefully since there's no chance of him being her partner again anyway. But then her body is pressed up against his, her arms wrapped around his neck as she holds on to him, begging him to give her his word, her fear and need so clearly evident in the desperate way she holds him. And it feels so good: the warmth of her body tugging him under towards sleep, all his worries slowly drifting away until they thin and bleed to the very edges of his consciousness.

"Promise," he mumbles into her neck, and she kisses his ear, strokes the back of his head, whispering, "Thank you," he thinks.

Or maybe he just dreams that she does. Because the undertow finally gets ahold of him, dragging him down into its leaden, crazy, irrational depths where he dreams that he falls down a giant rabbit hole only to come face to face with Jerry Tyson, and this time the two are completely alone.

* * *

_A/N: Thank you to fbobs for saving me the legwork and sending me NYS legal statutes as they pertain to Self-Defense and the use of deadly force in this particular instance. I've included an extract below that might interest you:- Self Defense Law in New York State. Article 35 'Defense of Justification'_

_35.30 Justification; use of physical force in making an arrest or in preventing an escape_

_1. A police officer or a peace officer, in the course of effecting or attempting to effect an arrest, or of preventing or attempting to prevent the escape from custody, of a person whom he reasonably believes to have committed an offense, may use physical force when and to the extent he reasonably believes such to be necessary to effect the arrest, or to prevent the escape from custody, or to defend himself or a third person from what he reasonably believes to be the use or imminent use of physical force; except that he may use deadly physical force for such purposes only when he reasonably believes that:_  
_(a) The offense committed by such person was:_  
_(i) a felony or an attempt to commit a felony involving the use or attempted use or threatened imminent use of physical force against a person; or_  
_(ii) kidnapping, arson, escape in the first degree, burglary in the first degree or any attempt to commit such a crime; or_  
_(b) The offense committed or attempted by such person was a felony and that, in the course of resisting arrest therefor or attempting to escape from custody, such person is armed with a firearm or deadly weapon; or_  
_(c) Regardless of the particular offense which is the subject of the arrest or attempted escape, the use of deadly physical force is necessary to defend the police officer or peace officer or another person from what the officer reasonably believes to be the use or imminent use of deadly physical force._  
_2. The fact that a police officer or a peace officer is justified in using deadly physical force under circumstances prescribed in paragraphs (a) and (b) of subdivision one does not constitute justification for reckless conduct by such police officer or peace officer amounting to an offense against or with respect to innocent persons whom he is not seeking to arrest or retain in custody._  
_3. A person who has been directed by a police officer or a peace officer to assist such police officer or peace officer to effect an arrest or to prevent an escape from custody may use physical force, other than deadly physical force, when and to the extent that he reasonably believes such to be necessary to carry out such police officer`s or peace officer`s direction, unless he knows that the arrest or prospective arrest is not or was not authorized and he may use deadly physical force under such circumstances when:_  
_(a) He reasonably believes such to be necessary to defend himself or a third person from what he reasonably believes to be the use or imminent use of deadly physical force; or_  
_(b) He is directed or authorized by such police officer or peace officer to use deadly physical force unless he knows that the police officer or peace officer himself is not authorized to use deadly physical force under the circumstances._  
_4. A private person acting on his own account may use physical force, other than deadly physical force, upon another person when and to the extent that he reasonably believes such to be necessary to effect an arrest or to prevent the escape from custody of a person whom he reasonably believes to have committed an offense and who in fact has committed such offense; and he may use deadly physical force for such purpose when he reasonably believes such to be necessary to:_  
_(a) Defend himself or a third person from what he reasonably believes to be the use or imminent use of deadly physical force; or_  
_(b) Effect the arrest of a person, who has committed murder, manslaughter in the first degree, robbery, forcible rape or forcible sodomy and who is in immediate flight there from._  
_5. A guard, police officer or peace officer who is charged with the duty of guarding prisoners in a detention facility, as that term is defined in section 205.00, or while in transit to or from a detention facility, may use physical force when and to the extent that he reasonably believes such to be necessary to prevent the escape of a prisoner from a detention facility or from custody while in transit thereto or there from._

_So, I hope we all learned something new today. Liv_


	35. Chapter 35 - Facing The Music

_**Chapter 35: Facing The Music**_

Kate is gone from the bed when Castle wakes the next morning. The covers are thrown back on her side, the sheets cool to the touch when he rolls over. Only the dent in her pillow confirms that she was ever there.

He finds her out in the kitchen, her bare feet curled around the bar of the stool where she sits at the counter talking quietly to his mother. A large mug of coffee rests on the island in front of her, fragrant stream rising from the mouth of the cup, her long, delicate fingers circling the rim in a soothing, repetitious rhythm. Her head is tipped over to one side, her hair hastily drawn back into a ponytail, and Castle watches her for a second, wondering how he ever got so lucky as to spend so much time with such a beautiful woman.

The sight of her smiling sympathetically at his mother, reaching out to pat her hand when Martha ducks her head and shakes it with worry, makes his chest ache with a sudden flood of yearning that catches him off-guard. The quiet, domestic scene has him hoping that they haven't missed their chance: that it will somehow still be possible to move forwards together, even with all the extra baggage they have added to their already heavy, complicated load.

* * *

"_Darling!"_ exclaims Martha, hopping down off her own stool to hurry over to him when she catches sight of him lingering by the bedroom door.

Castle's eyes remain locked on Kate's face until he is forced to look away when his mother finally reaches him and throws her arms up around his neck.

He woke her during the night with his mumbling and thrashing; dreams so violent and vivid that his finger joints ache from clenching them so hard in his sleep. She managed to quiet him down without actually waking him, and a flicker of recall comes back to him now when her sees the strain on her face, the tired darkness beneath her eyes, and the concern in her gaze.

Martha's perfumed, colorful swirl surrounds him, and he allows himself to get lost in it for a second, giving her his full attention and a level of affection that he hasn't shared with her in days. He experiences true remorse when he feels his mother accept the love he offers her with such eager gratitude.

"Come. Come," she says, dragging him over to the kitchen by the hand. "Sit! What would you like for breakfast? Just name it, darling, and it's yours," she proclaims, with a flourish.

Castle looks at Kate and his eyebrows shoot up at his mother's offer to cook for him.

"Martha, please, let me," says Kate, calmly rising to take over kitchen duties and save Castle a bad bout of indigestion later on. "An omelet, okay?" Kate asks, smiling when he gives her a vigorous nod of approval.

She pours him a coffee, hands him the large mug with a wink that seals their shared conspiracy, and then she sets about making breakfast. While she works, she listens to Martha's barrage of questions.

Castle wisely restricts the information he shares with his mother, and when she pushes for details surrounding the final moments of Tyson's life the night before, Kate steps in with a timely presentation of his plate of food, skillfully cutting Martha off from prying anymore.

She seems to take the hint, leaving them to eat together in peace while she goes upstairs to shower.

* * *

"I thought she was never going to leave," sighs Castle, taking another swig of coffee, his head turned to the side as he watches his mother climb the stairs, humming happily to herself.

"She's been really worried about you. And with just cause," adds Kate, taking a spoonful of cereal and then falling silent.

"Hope I didn't keep you awake last night," Castle says eventually, looking up from his food to see Kate's reaction.

"How did you…know? I thought you slept through."

"I did, mostly. But I'm pretty sure it wasn't the most restful night _you've_ ever had. So, I apologize."

"Actually, I slept better than I have in a long time," Kate reassures him. And it's the truth. "You ready to face Gates this morning?" she asks, popping a blueberry into her mouth.

"Don't exactly have a choice. We've been summoned. _You too, Mr. Castle_," mimics Castle, making his voice high and stern to ape that of the Captain.

Kate laughs and shakes her head at him.

"Get that out of your system," she scolds. "No room for joking around today. Rachel's ass is on the line too, remember."

"I know," he says, sobering up. "You two seem to get on well," he notes, and this is the first time they have ever discussed Rachel McCord, Kate realizes.

"I like her. She's honest, straightforward. Tells it like it is. No sugar coating. The world could do with more people like her."

"Tells it like it is? Ain't that the truth," agrees Castle, nodding vigorously. "Should have heard her when she first started. I think she thought I was a complete ass."

"You think?" teases Kate, arching an eyebrow at him, her mouth drawn into a smirk.

"Okay, I probably _was_ an ass. But that's not the point."

"Right," nods Kate, grinning. "So, just out of interest. What is the point?"

Castle pokes food around his plate with his fork while he thinks of an appropriate answer. Carter Burke's voice is the one that urges him to be honest with her.

"The point is that…it took a while to get used to the new. She—it really wasn't her fault. I resented her even being there at first. But I would have been the same with anyone," he adds, for fairness sake. "You were gone. I missed you so badly. _And_ the guys _and_ the Precinct. I found myself drifting back there not long after you left. It wasn't the same, but then nothing was," he says, glancing around his own home to make his point.

Kate can hear her own heart beating, so honest and intense is this outpouring from Castle; the most open he's been with her since she got back.

"Then Rachel showed up a week or so later. She took _your_ desk, got rid of _my chair_ and…she wasn't you," he says simply, looking back down at his plate to finish the last of his breakfast.

"I am so sorry, Rick," Kate tells him, feeling the need to say something, while recognizing that she must sound like a broken record by now. "For the terrible way I handled everything. I acted as if my career was more important than your life, more important than you were to me. I don't think I've ever gotten anything so wrong," she confesses, pausing to see what kind of a response this will elicit from Castle.

"Yeah, well, that's all water under the bridge now," he replies coolly, cutting across the sentimentality of the moment. "Rachel is a great girl and a really good detective. Eventually, we had a lot of fun together," he tells Kate, smiling at some memory or other that pops into his head. "I owe her big time after last night."

"Yeah," muses Kate, trying to tamp down the jag of jealousy that cramps her gut, while fighting to ignore her strong suspicion that, at the Twelfth at least, she has already been replaced. "We both do," she agrees.

* * *

Kate gets up to clear away their dishes, but Castle insists on taking over, sending her off to have her shower first instead. She is already dressed and finishing up her makeup, when he finally taps on the partially open bathroom door.

"Come in," she calls out, leaning in close to the mirror to draw a perfect, dark line of liquid kohl across her upper eyelid.

Castle pops his head around the door and then edges further inside.

"Everything okay?" asks Kate, giving him a quick once over when he doesn't actually come all the way in.

"Yeah. Uh…I was just gonna jump in the shower," he tells her, stiffly, still hovering in the doorway.

It takes her a minute to realize that he seems to expect or want her to leave the bathroom while he showers.

"Am…am I in the way here?" she asks him, coating her lashes with layers of black mascara, the wand held firmly between thumb and forefinger while she bends over the vanity.

When he doesn't answer her, Kate stops what she's doing and turns to look at him.

"Are you sure you're okay?" she asks, looking him up and down.

"Yeah. Fine. I just thought that maybe you might be uncomfortable…"

He stops speaking and coughs.

"Uncomfortable?" prompts Kate, nodding for him to say more, thought she has a pretty good idea what he's referring to.

"Sharing a bathroom."

"What?" she laughs, watching his face flush a little. "Castle, we've been sharing a bathroom for over a year. Why so bashful all of a sudden?" she asks, dropping her eyes until they briefly hover over his crotch before sweeping them back to the mirror. "You're the guy who rode a police horse through Central Park _naked_, remember? You've never had an issue taking your clothes off before. Why now?"

"This is just…awkward," he sighs, running a hand through his hair.

"Awkward?"

"Yeah. You and me."

"We're sharing a bed. You think showering while I finish my makeup is awkward?"

"For me, it is."

"For you?"

Kate halts what she's doing.

"Okay, you're gonna have to spell this out for me I'm afraid. Because I am in the dark here and we have…" Kate checks at her father's watch "…barely twenty minutes to get out of here or we'll be late for Gates."

"Please don't make me say it?" Castle surprises her by saying.

"Make you say _what?_ Okay, you know what," replies Kate, hurriedly repacking her cosmetics purse. "I am just going to go and finish up upstairs. There! No more awkward," she snaps, as she hurries out the door feeling wounded and rejected and utterly confused.

* * *

"Kate?" calls out Martha, as she makes a beeline for the stairs, her heels clicking loudly on the wooden floor. "What's wrong, dear?"

Kate drops a lipstick on the floor and has to chase after the tube as it rolls away. She lets out a growl of frustration and spins back around to face Martha as soon as she picks it up.

"Just when I think we might be getting somewhere, he…he pulls back," she forces out, to a startled looking Martha. "Look, I shouldn't even be talking about this. It's fine. I'll just…" she says, gesturing upstairs.

"Katherine, give him a little time," says Martha, softly. "He's proud and he's hurting, darling. This mess with that monster Tyson must be preying on his mind too. Go a little easy on him."

"I think I've missed my chance," Kate confesses, chewing her lip. "I think I waited too long."

"Nonsense. No such thing, my dear," Martha tells her, rubbing her arm affectionately. "I know my son, and I can see how he feels about you. That's not even possible, darling."

"I hope you're right," admits Kate.

"Just don't let him off the hook. Not for a second," Martha counsels her. "If you love him, tell him so. You may have to make your relationship a priority for a while. But you'll find a way. I have faith in you, my dear."

* * *

The rush to get to the Precinct consumes all their time and energy, so they're in the elevator on the way up to the Homicide floor before they really speak again.

"I'm sorry I was such an idiot back there," Castle grits out, looking down at the floor.

"Already forgotten," Kate replies, keeping her eyes trained on the metal doors.

She's nervous about seeing the Captain, hopes that all the details in their statements match up. The next thirty or so minutes will be crucial to all their futures.

"Feels like old times," adds Castle, gesturing for her to exit the elevator ahead of him.

"What I wouldn't give for old times," mutters Kate, striding out towards the bullpen with Castle by her side.

Ryan and Esposito are at their desks, heads trained on the paperwork they're filling out. With Rachel using Kate's old desk and Castle's chair gone, the partners are without a permanent home on the Homicide floor now.

"How about we grab a coffee?" suggests Kate, tipping her head towards the break room since at least in there it won't be so obvious that they don't really belong here anymore.

"I just have something to get off the fax machine first," says Castle, reading a message on his phone. "Give me a second?"

Kate waits for him, watching him go. His familiarity with this place and how at home he seems here only adding to her own strong feelings about being back, no matter how temporarily. Regret sits heavy as a stone in the center of her chest, weighing her down. But there is little she can do to change the decisions she has made in the past. She can only try to mend fences and move forwards.

* * *

Castle returns and hands her a print-off.

"What's this?" she asks, looking over the sheet of paper.

"The proof you asked for. Jessie and Sarah's inheritance. The entry in the property records showing their joint ownership of 58 Elizabeth Street. It was registered under a limited liability company because of the tax implications of the building's mixed use and the commercial aspects of the renovation, so…harder to link back to them. Might explain to Gates why we searched it last minute," he suggests, with a shrug. "Finding the paper trail took longer."

"Thanks for this, Castle," she says, genuinely grateful as she tucks the report away into her folder. "And for finding it in the first place, even if I still don't approve of you investigating by yourself," she adds. "But if it hadn't been for this we might never have found Tyson."

"No. No, I think you're wrong there. I think Tyson would have made sure we found him. This just speeded up the process."

"Whatever way you want to look at it. Good job," she adds, turning towards the break room.

Rachel is at the coffee machine when they walk in, her back is to them as she serves herself an espresso.

"Hey," she says, turning to give them both a smile. "Woah, you guys have really long faces for a couple who just got out from under the threat of a serial killer. Have you looked in the mirror lately? You both look so miserable," she points out.

Castle and Kate look at one another, both slightly embarrassed.

"What were you saying about sugar coating?" Castle asks Kate, giving her a sly smile.

"Were you guys talking about me?" asks Rachel, starting to grin. "Because I know I am totally fascinating, but—"

Victoria Gates pops her head around the door before Rachel can say anymore.

"Good. You're all here. If you'd like to come through to my office now. Agent Shaw and I are ready for you," Gates tells them, before immediately disappearing again.

"You prepared for this?" Rachel asks both of them.

"We're doing the right thing for the right reasons," Kate reminds them all.

Castle stands aside, letting Rachel and Kate go ahead of him before following both women into the Captain's office.

Ryan and Esposito stand to watch them pass, and there's a strange feeling of ceremony about the whole thing; not a sensation Castle actually likes.

* * *

"Please take a seat," Gates tells them.

Jordan Shaw is standing in the corner, leaning on a file cabinet. She nods her head at Kate, giving her a reassuring smile.

"So, Agent Shaw and I have reviewed the statements each of you provided last night, and we've had a chance this morning to cross reference your accounts with those of the two other witnesses at the scene – Jessie and Sarah Calman."

Jordan takes up the story at this point.

"The sisters basically confirm your version of events. They said that Tyson forced them to take him to the small apartment their grandparents last lived in beneath the antiques shop in Elizabeth Street. He knew it wouldn't be long before we found Sarah's apartment and staying at Jessie's was no longer an option after you interviewed her, Rachel and Kate."

"So, he used that address to hide out?" asks Rachel.

"Seems that way. They'd been down there for a couple of days. We found bottles of water, canned goods and a few fresh produce items in the small kitchen downstairs."

"What about the loan he forced Jessie to take out on her apartment?" asks Kate. "Wouldn't it have made more sense to take the money and get out of the city?"

"We're still piecing bits of the story together. The sisters were too traumatized when we visited them at the hospital last night to tell us much more than I've just shared with you now. However, lucky for you, Mr. Castle," says Gates, giving the writer a stern look, "they do corroborate your account of the shooting. Both women clearly recall you giving Tyson two verbal warnings to drop his weapon. Jessie confirmed that he held the knife to her face and insists that she was in fear for her life. So, in light of that information, the D.A. has decided to rule this an open and shut case - justifiable use of deadly force in the defense of a third party."

Kate prays silently that Castle won't open his mouth, won't blurt anything revealing or inappropriate upon hearing this good news, and she's gratified to see him remain quiet and stoic throughout. He merely nods and then sits back a little in his seat, as if he might be relieved.

* * *

"There is the small matter of how you ended up at that address however," adds Gates, just when they think they are all off the hook. "Without a warrant, you know we're talking unlawful entry and—"

"Are you serious?" blurts Rachel, and Kate lays a hand on the woman's arm to stop her from saying anything more.

"We had this, Sir," says Kate, pulling the fax Castle gave her out from her folder and handing it over. "The Calman's registered the entire property within an LLC. So it took us some time to link that address back to the sisters."

"Why am I just seeing this now?" asks Gates, handing the piece of paper off to Jordan Shaw to let her read it.

"The call came in last night after I'd gone home. I only got access to the hard copy this morning. Time was of the essence and when we went down there to check for signs of activity we found the door unlocked. I know we should have waited for a warrant, Sir, but we thought we heard a cry for help coming from inside the building and so…" Kate shrugs.

"And you were right, as it turned out," chips in Jordan Shaw, while Captain Gates crosses her arms, leans back in her chair and eyes them all skeptically.

"One hell of a coincidence you three just happened to be there when somebody screamed," she says dryly, clearly not believing a word of their story.

Kate can feel her mouth drying up.

"But, it seems lady luck was smiling on all of you last night," she adds, to Kate's great relief. "And good news travels fast. I got a call from the Commissioner's Office this morning congratulating me on my team's success in bringing down a dangerous serial killer. Your efforts have not gone unnoticed at One PP," she says, looking to Kate particularly. "There may even be commendations in the offing.

"On behalf of the FBI," adds Jordan, "I would like to have said that it was a great pleasure working shoulder to shoulder to you. But since you ultimately managed to locate Jerry Tyson without our help, I will simply say that you've got a great team here, Victoria. It would be a shame to see it broken up."

"Indeed," replies Gates, thoughtfully.

* * *

Gates turns to address Rachel at this point.

"See that this makes it into the file," she tells the detective, handing her the fax Kate offered up. "And if you wouldn't mind leaving us now. I'd like a word with Beckett and Mr. Castle."

Rachel and Jordan leave the room. Rachel casts one last glance at Kate, giving her a sympathetic smile as she goes.

"I don't like to be made a fool of, as you both know," she tells them, immediately they are alone. "I think that the portion in both your statements that refers to the use of an extra firearm brought to the scene by you, Kate, on the off chance that you would encounter some kind of trouble, stretches credibility somewhat. Especially when we ran that gun through the system and found out that it was registered to you, Mr. Castle."

"I thought that if I needed backup, then a gun that Castle was used to handling would make safest sense," Kate begins to argue. "He has spent some time at the range recently, and—"

"Enough!" interrupts Gates, bouncing in her office chair. "If you required backup you should have called it in and waited until help arrived. You _know_ that, Kate. And _you_," she says, turning to address Castle. "Point of interest. Concealed carry without a permit is a felony in this state, Mr. Castle. Don't ever forget that."

Castle keeps his mouth shut and merely nods, having the good sense to look chastened, since Gates clearly knows that they lied to her about who brought the gun along and yet she's willing to overlook it given the final outcome of events.

"You were both lucky this time. You got the result we needed, it was a good shoot, and a dangerous murderer is off the streets. But do not believe for a second that the end always justifies the means. Be _are_ the law, but we are never _above_ the law. Remember that. Mr. Castle, you are free to go. I need to have a word with Kate."

Castle nods and rises immediately, leaving the room without a backwards glance. Kate watches him walk out, expecting all the way to the door that he will turn around and look at her, but he doesn't, not once.

* * *

"You have been through a lot since you returned from D.C. to work this case. Being a target and managing to keep a clear enough head to hunt down leads and remain within the law is not easy, especially when someone you care about is a victim in that circumstance. You continue to impress me, Kate. Your skills, your dedication and your loyalty to your team are commendable."

"Thank you, Sir," nods Kate, feeling the big farewell coming.

"So, in light of your performance on this case I have prepared a report for your superiors back in Washington that should go a long way to smoothing over the somewhat…messy situation you left behind. _However,_" adds Gates, steepling her fingers under her chin, "should you decide that life on a Federal task force is not for you, I would not be averse to having you back on my team."

Kate's head shoots up at this piece of news, utterly unprepared for Gates' offer.

"What about Rachel?" asks Kate, glancing out through the blinds to see Ryan, Esposito, Rachel and Castle all standing in a huddle shooting the breeze.

They look like a tight-knit little gang, and Kate longs to be a part of it, but not if it's at the expense of Rachel's job.

"Tidy up the loose ends on this one. I don't want anyone thinking I can't control my people. Understand? Cross every t, Kate. And then, in a few days, when you'd had some time to catch your breath, let me know how you want to proceed," says Gates, cryptically. "I'll hold onto this for now," she tells her, tapping the report she's prepared to smooth the way for Kate if she decides to return to D.C. "Rachel has made a good addition to this team. I have been watching you two working together. You could make an excellent partnership. Whether there's room for Mr. Castle's continued input remains to be seen. But if you intend giving your personal relationship a go, surely being in the same city would be a good start?"

* * *

Kate thanks the Captain for her suggestion and leaves the room feeling dazed and confused.

"Everything okay in there?" asks Rachel, jerking her thumb towards Gates' office as soon as she comes out.

"Eh, yeah. I think so," replies Kate, her brows knitting as she looks back over her shoulder at her former boss whose head is now bowed over some paperwork, glasses perched on the end of her nose.

"So, did she rip you a new one or what?" pushes Rachel, waiting eagerly for an answer.

"No. I think she just threw me a lifeline," replies Kate, looking around the bullpen for Castle.

"Looking for Rick?" asks Rachel, following her gaze towards the elevator. "He said he had to go. Errand to run or something," adds Rachel, vaguely, clearly feeling bad for Kate that Castle didn't hang around long enough to find out what Gates wanted with her.

"Oh," replies Kate, unable to hide her disappointment.

"So, we still on for those drinks?" Rachel asks, brightly, changing the subject, including the guys in her question. "Old Haunt, Friday night okay for everyone? Kelly's off this weekend, so…" she grins, doing a little happy dance.

"I'll check with Castle," says Kate, out of habit more than anything.

"Oh, that's okay," says Rachel. "He already said yes," she tells Kate, deflating her even further.

"Right. Great. Then Friday night it is," she replies, sitting down at a spare desk to begin finalizing the paperwork on the Tyson case, surprised by how empty she feels despite the satisfying ending they've just achieved.

* * *

"Darling, you're home early," says Martha, looking up from her magazine in surprise when her son strides back into the loft just before half past eleven. "How'd your meeting go at the Precinct? Is the Mayor going to give you a medal?"

"Things went fine," Castle tells his mother, the flatness in his voice drawing her attention.

"And where's Katherine? You two surely deserve some time off after all you've been through."

"I left her at the Precinct. She'll be heading back to D.C. soon, I imagine. Gates wanted to see her alone once she'd finished with the rest of us. Tying up loose ends, I assume. I wasn't about to stick around and watch her say her farewells to the guys for a second time."

"Darling, please come over here and sit down," asks his mother, laying her magazine aside and patting the sofa cushion next to her.

Castle does as his mother asks, sighing heavily as he lowers his large frame on to the sofa.

"Richard, I know you," she says softly, reaching out to touch his cheek. "But it doesn't take a mother to see that you are hurting right now. Have you talked to Katherine about any of this? Told her how you feel?"

"I shot and killed a man last night, mother. This hasn't exactly been the right time to talk about planning some rosy future."

"I can't imagine what you're going through right now. But you need to talk to Kate. I would hate to see both of you miss out on a lifetime of happiness because you were too stubborn to open up to one another after all you've been through. Just talk to her, darling. I think you might be pleasantly surprised," she adds, giving him a pat on the hand and a twinkling smile.

* * *

Castle thinks about what his mother has said as he sits in his office re-reading Kate's letter. She has apologized numerous times for the way that she left. That she came back for him is the absolute bottom line, even if the driver was Tyson. He has to decide whether he can overlook that hitch if they are to have a future together.

He leaves home with enough time to drop by the Precinct before his five o'clock appointment with Dr. Burke. He calls Rachel to make sure that Kate is there, picks up a tray of coffees and a box of French pastries on the way when Rachel tells him they're all still knee-deep in paperwork. He's actually whistling to himself when he finally exits the elevator.

The boys surround him like a pack of wild dogs, hungrily descending on the box of pastries.

"She's in the break room," grins Rachel, lifting a pain au chocolat to her mouth before Castle can even ask about Kate's whereabouts.

Kate is on her cell phone, her back to the door as she leans over one of the high tables to make a call. He reaches the open break room door just in time to hear her say, "I should be back in D.C. by the weekend, Sir. Yes, I'll let you know as soon as my flight is confirmed."

Castle pauses for a mere second to regain his balance, and then he spins on his heel and he leaves the Twelfth without uttering another word to anyone, accompanied to the elevator by several pairs of surprised and curious eyes.

* * *

_A/N: Not long to go now guys. Hope everyone's having a lovely weekend. Liv _


	36. Chapter 36 - Coming Full Circle

_**Chapter 36: Coming Full Circle**_

Over the next couple of days Castle manages to more or less avoid all contact with Kate. He concocts urgent meetings with Paula and even Gina. And though she doesn't actually ask for his help in clearing her old apartment, he gets these excuses in first, via a note left on the kitchen counter, or a text message to her cell phone. He meets up with some of his old poker buddies the first night, and goes out to dinner with Alexis and her roommate on the second one, only coming home when he knows Kate will already be asleep in bed, rising the next day before she wakes to go out for a run.

Yes, he's definitely running, and for once she doesn't blame him.

Kate is pretty sure the terrible memories returning to her apartment would stir up if he accompanied her back there would be completely counterproductive to his recovery. So she never even contemplates asking for his help. She has to grit her own teeth to handle the task, and she can see what he's doing and why – the case is over, he is safe, Tyson is dead, and so her time in New York, her very reason for being back there, has reached an end. He's hurting, he's afraid of asking for more at the risk of having her break his heart all over again, just as Martha has said.

But _she_ has this last task to perform and _he_ needs time – time to see Burke, time to come to terms with the fact of having taken another human life, no matter how unworthy of regret that life might be, time just to think. And she can be patient, she can wait; it is her turn to do so after all.

* * *

So she asks her dad for help, which he's only too eager to provide. She uses the clear out as a way to spend time with her father, to fill him in on her life in DC before she came back - the job, the city, the characters she met - and to confess to the long litany of personal mistakes she has made where her relationship with Castle is concerned and seek out a little fatherly advice in the process.

Alexis drops by late morning on the first day, surprising both of them with take out coffee and fancy sandwiches from the deli down the street. She peers curiously around the apartment as she talks to Kate, her eyes wandering warily as if she expects Tyson to leap out of a closet at any second.

"Dad's sulking," she confesses eventually, and Kate's detective brain smells the real reason for her visit. "He's talking about going out to the Hamptons for a long weekend. Just the two of us. He called a couple of hours ago. Wants us to leave on Friday morning."

"No. Alexis, no, you have to tell him you have a class or something. Stop him leaving until after Friday," insists Kate, panic rising in her voice.

"You mean _lie?_" asks Alexis, wide-eyed and unblinking.

"I…eh…" stammers Kate, glancing over at her dad, who's smiling at both of them.

"Yes, Katie? Are you encouraging this lovely young woman to _lie_ to her own _father_ on your behalf?" he asks, innocently, until his smirk and the twinkle in his eye that he's aiming at Alexis gives them both away and they burst out laughing.

"_Seriously?_ You're choosing _now_ to gang up on me?" asks Kate, her frown making way for a smile of her own. "Just make sure he comes for drinks to the Old Haunt on Friday night. Please? Everyone is going to be there. Tell him the Hamptons can wait, okay?"

"Okay," grins Alexis. "I'll do my best. Now, can I help?" she asks, a little shyly, looking around at the boxes and rolls of packing tape strewn everywhere.

And if Castle's daughter can forgive her enough to be here for this, Kate has some hope that maybe there is a chance for her and Rick too.

"Sure. Help me wrap these throw cushions to give to Goodwill," replies Kate, gratefully accepting the girl's offer of help.

* * *

By the time Friday rolls around they've spent almost no time in each other's company. Two nights spent sleeping in the same bed with no physical intimacy, and just a cool silence stretching between them on the rare occasion that they find themselves alone at all. If Kate tries to engage Castle in conversation of any kind, he avoids, or he finds someway to physically put himself out of reach – his office, a coffee shop down the street, or far across town.

Martha is Kate's cheering squad, urging her at every turn to stick with it, not to give up on her son. His behavior is so heartbreakingly obvious now that Kate finds herself unable to take offense at his avoidance in a way she might have in the past. She has to prove that she'll be there for him no matter what. That he will accept this promise eventually is her only hope.

So, she finds herself preparing for the get-together at the Old Haunt alone. She texts Castle when she's dressed and ready go to remind him that they are supposed to be going out with friends tonight. His reply is curt.

'_Still in meetings. Will get there if I can. Not sure I'll make it though. Have fun.'_

She could scream, but she won't. Instead, she does something she's never done before. She calls Castle's shrill and slightly scary agent, Paula Haas, and she asks for her help.

Turns out he does have a meeting, but it's one that he himself has arranged. Paula has a date lined up Friday night and so she doesn't want to be there any longer than Kate wants Castle to be there. So she promises to use her considerable influence over him - not to mention her foghorn of a voice, Kate imagines – to get him down to his own bar as soon as she can.

In the course of the conversation, Paula lets slip that he referred to the event as 'Kate's leaving party', and that this might be the reason he's refusing to go.

"I've had enough of his moping, quite frankly," she tells Kate, accompanied by the smacking sound of chewing gum. "No offense or nothin', but you need to marry the guy or move on, honey. Because right now, he's a freakin' train wreck," Paula declares.

Having successfully bit her tongue, since Paula does have a valid point for once, Kate checks her appearance in the mirror one last time, zips her wheeled case closed, and then she heads for the door.

"Call me," pleads Martha, giving her a tight squeeze and a watery-eyed smile.

"Don't worry," assures Kate, kissing Castle's mother on the cheek. "And thank you for everything," she adds sincerely.

* * *

Rachel hovers by the nurses' station chatting to the night supervisor while she waits for Kelly. Her girlfriend is stuck in a patient conference with the lead Oncologist at Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center, the hospital where she works.

"So, we're fully up to speed with the Williams, Sanchez, Klein and Ramirez cases. What about Winters?" asks the doctor, checking the final set of patient notes he has in front of him.

"Eh…yeah, Eric Winters was a no-show for his appointment this morning," confirms Kelly. "That's the second one he's missed."

"Okay, call him first thing Monday, and let's see if we can't get him in to have a face-to-face with Suzie. Get him to talk through his fears. Some people have a hard time accepting a terminal diagnosis," the doctor points out. "Or they need extra support understanding all their treatment options, such as his were."

"I know he wasn't answering his cell when I called today. But I'll try again next week," agrees Kelly. "Accounts have actually put a flag on his file. There are some outstanding charges for the MRI he had a month ago and the blood work we did before the first round of chemo was due to start. Might just be a hitch with his HMO. Don't worry, I'll chase it up."

"Going somewhere nice tonight?" asks the doctor, admiring Kelly's dress as they stand, finally wrapping up the meeting.

"Thanks. Yeah. My girlfriend's picking me up. Little get together with some of her cop friends at a bar downtown, so I thought I'd make an effort."

"Well, have a good night," says the doctor, as Kelly leaves his office with a wave.

"Hey, babe," she says, kissing Rachel on the cheek when she finally makes it out to the nurses' station.

"You all done here?" asks Rachel, while Kelly hands her patient files over to the care of the nursing supervisor.

"Yeah, all done. Let's go have a good time," replies Kelly, taking her girlfriend by the arm.

* * *

The Old Haunt is jumping by the time Kate arrives – a mixture of the regular Friday night crowd, and over in the back corner, her own little gang. Her face lights up when she sees them, and it feels so good to be welcomed back into the fold again for nothing more than a night of fun.

Jenny is sitting in a corner booth with Ryan standing right next to her, hovering like a clucky mother hen. Kate is surprised to see how pregnant she actually looks. She's glowing and beaming, and she has that look of a special secret locked away inside that pregnant women often have; as if they have an inner conversation going on with their unborn child already. Kate feels a little prickle of envy when she sees the two of them together; so solid, happy and so loving.

"Jenny, look at you," she gushes, helping her up from the booth when she insists on standing to greet Kate. "Not long now, huh?"

"Still three months to go, can you believe?" corrects Jenny. "just imagine the size I'll be then," she grins, smoothing her hand over her firm belly, though Kate can tell by her excited face that she's loving every second of her pregnancy.

"Where's Castle?" Ryan asks her, looking over her shoulder expectantly, and her face clouds slightly with the anxiety that's been churning her insides all afternoon.

"He…uh…he had a meeting," she nods, trying to hide her disappointment that he deliberately left her to come to the party alone. "I'm hoping he'll be here soon," she adds, giving Ryan a forced smile.

"Hang in there, Beckett," chips in Esposito, not missing a thing. "Guy's had a lot on his plate lately, what with Tyson and the whole DC thing," he points out, somewhat bluntly.

"Yeah. That's what everyone says," she agrees. "I know this is my own fault. But I'm determined to fix it if I can."

* * *

Kate hears a squeal off to her right and a shimmying Lanie appears carrying two large, chilled Mojitos.

"Girlfriend, where the heck have you been hiding yourself?" she scolds, handing Kate one of the glasses.

"Sorry, Lanie. Things got a little hectic there for a minute," Kate says, with massive understatement.

"So I heard. And where _is_ Castle?" she asks, looking around the bar, too small to see over most of the heads nearby, so she bobs and weaves instead.

Kate doesn't even have to look around to know that he's still not here. She can feel the lack of his presence without checking.

"I was hoping to have a word with both of you before I get too buzzed on these things to make any sense."

"What's the problem?" asks Kate, sipping at her own drink, thinking that feeling buzzed sounds pretty good right about now.

Lanie leads her over to a corner, out of the hubbub of noisy, jostling people.

"I completed the autopsy on Jerry Tyson this morning," she tells Kate, keeping her voice as low as she can so that they won't be overheard.

"_And?_" asks Kate, a knot of something nasty tightening inside her.

"I found something…strange."

"Do I have to beg or could you please just tell me. He _is_ clinically dead, right?"

"Oh, he's dead alright. But even if Castle hadn't shot the guy, my best guess? He'd have been dead in a matter of months."

"What are you talking about?" asks Kate, feeling her stomach drop.

"When I removed his internal organs to weigh and record them, which is just standard procedure, I found a mass attached to the hepatopancreatic ampulla. A pancreatic ductal adenocarcinomas to be precise."

"In English, please, Lanie?" begs Kate.

"He had a sizeable tumor at the juncture where the pancreatic duct and common bile duct meet. The mass was attached to a major artery, Kate. Now, I'm not an oncologist or a gastrointestinal surgeon, but the chances of being able to remove that thing surgically looked slim to me."

"Are you saying he was going to die anyway?" she asks, feeling as if the floor has just been ripped out from under her.

"I went back and reexamined the rest of the organs after I discovered the primary tumor. When I looked at his lungs, I found signs of fluid – inflammation in the membranes. It's called pleural effusion. It's a common symptom of secondary lung cancer. The pancreatic cancer had obviously metastasized. There would have been no way he didn't know that he was sick."

"So he was going to die _anyway_?" repeats Kate, suddenly feeling nauseous.

"I'm so sorry, sweetie," says Lanie, nodding sympathetically.

"How am I going to tell Castle that Tyson engineered all of this…this _entire nightmare_ just to get him to end his life? That _evil_ bastard. That…that _coward_. He knew that he was going to die and so he forced Castle to do it for him? To carry that burden for the rest of his life? How do I tell him that, Lanie?"

"Honey, I wish I could help you," soothes Lanie. "I'm so sorry to give you such bad news," she adds, hating that she is the one to cause her friend so much distress. "But I'm afraid you might have to come up with an answer sooner than you'd like. Guess who just walked into the bar?"

* * *

Kate's spine stiffens, and she feels the hair on her arms and the back of her neck rise up as if electrically charged.

When she finally gathers herself enough to turn around, Castle is making his way through the crowd towards Rachel and Kelly. His avoidance of her is deliberate, she can tell, since she knows him so well - can read his body language: the steel in his eyes and the pitch of his jaw - and it stings.

He glances over at her while throwing himself into a jovial, artificially lighthearted conversation with the two women, and Kate has to dig deep this time not to just walk out of the bar and never look back.

But her past mistakes anchor her, along with Martha and her dad's own wise words – that if she loves him and she trusts him and she missed him as much as she says she did when they were apart, then there is hope. There is reason enough to fight. But she has to make a choice: to tough it out, put her heart on the line like never before, and make a stand.

"Things not going well at home?" murmurs Lanie, turning Kate back around so that the two of them can talk.

"He's been so distant the last couple of days. He comes to bed so late that I'm already asleep, he's had this raft of meetings all of a sudden that he says he simply can't get out of… Even Alexis came to see me to tell me he was planning to take off for the Hamptons this weekend. I've tried getting him to talk to me, but he avoids taking my calls. I've apologized so often the words just sound meaningless now."

"I know things look bad right now, Kate," soothes Lanie. "Just promise me you won't give up? You two were meant to be together, I'm sure of it. Hang in there, sweetie," she says, giving her girlfriend a squeeze.

"Hey, how's my girls?" leers Javi, coming over to wrap his arms around Lanie.

"We ain't yo' girls," Lanie throws back at him, voiding her argument when she starts dancing with him anyway.

Kate drifts away from their silly happiness to say hello to Jordan Shaw, who's hovering by the door looking a little lost.

"Hey, you came," she says, managing a genuine smile for the FBI Agent.

"Yeah. I wasn't about to let you leave without saying goodbye. As ever, it has been a blast, Kate," says Jordan, making her way over to the bar with her. "Where's your boyfriend?" she asks, looking around for Castle.

"Deliberately avoiding me in that corner over there with Rachel and Kelly," replies Kate, tipping her head in the direction of the trio.

"Things not straightened out yet?"

"Nope. And I don't have long. Flight leaves at ten."

"Gee, you're cutting it fine," says Jordan, checking her watch. "I'm staying on for another couple of days. There's an international arms fair in town. I promised my boss I'd go. Keep an eye out for America's most wanted - the guys with serious money playing in the big leagues. Won't hurt to check out some of the new hardware either."

"Never a dull moment," says Kate, dryly, clinking glasses with Jordan.

"We make a good team, don't we?" says Jordan, surprising Kate a little with this slightly sentimental remark. "But then so do you and Castle," she muses, raising her glass to the man in question when he looks over at them for the umpteenth time in the last few minutes.

"I always thought we did," sighs Kate. "Now I just have to find a way to persuade him that that's still the case."

"Well, judging by the way he keeps staring over at you in that dress, I'd say you won't have to try too hard," grins Jordan, giving Kate a nudge.

Kate blushes and then ducks her head to look at the floor.

"Oh, please," teases Jordan. "Don't pretend you slipped into that little number for Rachel and Kelly's benefit."

Kate laughs this time.

"Still telling it like it is," she nods.

"Oh, I'm too long in the tooth to stop now. Here's to a tough case finally closed," adds Jordan, raising her glass to Kate.

"Actually, there's a sting in that particular tale I just learned. Remind me to tell you about it sometime. But first, I do need to talk to that man over there, since time is getting on. Would you excuse me?"

"Of course. Good luck. And remember, sometimes the direct approach is the best one," she tells Kate, with a wink. "I'll call you when I get back to D.C. and maybe we can meet up."

"I'd like that. Take care, Jordan. And thanks for everything."

* * *

Castle can feel Kate's approach before she reaches him, is aware of her wending her way through the noisy throng to get to him. His stomach churns anxiously and he has a desperate urge to duck out the back door into the alley before she can make it to his side. But just as he thinks about getting his feet to move, her cool hand lands on his arm, fingers curling around his jacket, and there is suddenly nowhere left to go.

He's been dreading this moment ever since he overheard her speaking on her cell phone in the break room, has done all he can to avoid her the last couple of days. He even planned to duck out of tonight's party altogether until Paula interfered, pulling up in a cab in front of The Old Haunt and practically ejecting him out on the sidewalk while the vehicle was still moving with the parting words, '_And don't be a jackass_', still ringing in his ears.

"Hey," he hears Kate say to Rachel and Kelly. "Great to see you again, Kelly," she adds, accepting a kiss on the cheek from Rachel's girlfriend.

"Mind if I steal this guy away for a second?" Kate asks, holding on firmly to Castle's arm.

"Be our guest," replies Kelly, adding, "His jokes are lousier than usual anyway."

"Remember you still owe me a drink," Rachel calls after her, winking, and Kate smiles, raising her glass to the detective as she propels them all the way to Castle's office at the back of the bar without stopping.

"What is it, Kate?" snaps Castle, once they are enclosed behind the frosted glass door. "There's a party out there. Aren't you the guest of honor? Don't you have to—"

"I need to talk to you," she says, calmly, cutting across his bitter, pained little rant. "We don't have long. The flight leaves in—"

"Yeah, DC. So I heard," he mutters, finally sobering up. "Shouldn't you be out there saying your fond—"

"_Castle!_" barks Kate, finally overcome with exasperation.

"_What?_" he growls back.

"Please, for once, would you just listen to me?" she pleads.

For some reason these words or her tone seem to grab his attention and he falls silent.

"Thank you," she replies, quietly, when he sinks down onto the edge of his own desk to face her. "The flight departs in two hours," she tells him, and he tips his head forward, dropping it into his hands.

"Kate…" he sighs, shaking his head when he looks up at her again. "I can't do this anymore." He sounds so broken and defeated.

"Alexis should be meeting us out front in ten minutes," she adds, swallowing hard and trying to stick to her script without reaching out to him.

"What?" he asks, again, frowning in confusion, as Kate ignores his rejection and carries on talking.

"I packed you a bag. Paula cleared your schedule. Castle, I'm not leaving without you again," she adds, before slipping her fingers down the front of her dress to remove the chain on which her mother's and her own engagement rings still hang.

Castle watches her, eyes wide, swallowing as if his mouth has suddenly gone dry.

"You told me this was mine to keep when I left for D.C. the last time, after I was too selfish and cowardly to give you an answer. I've been wearing it ever since you went missing to keep you close to me. And now you're back, and you're safe, thank God. But I haven't earned this," she tells him, unfastening the chain to slide the ring off.

She holds it out to him, his silence for the last sixty seconds so total that it's actually unnerving her. But she pushes on.

"I want to earn the right to wear this ring on my finger, Rick. If you'll give me another chance to do that."

He stares at her, his dazed expression almost uncomprehending.

"I love you more than I ever thought possible. You're all I want. I hope you'll let me prove it to you, let me earn back your trust and the faith you've always shown in me."

* * *

She places the engagement ring in his hand, closing his palm into a tight fist, wrapping his fingers around the ring, since he seems incapable of doing it for himself, and then she looks back up at him.

"There's something else I have to tell you," she starts to say.

But there's a sharp rap on the rippled glass of the office door before she can add anything more. Lanie pops her head around the frame.

"Alexis is here with the car, Kate," she says, giving Castle a sympathetic smile. "She says she'll wait for you out front."

"Thanks, Lanie," replies Kate, thankful that her friend retreats immediately.

"So? What do you say?" asks Kate, knowing that this is it - now or never, do or die.

She's been as plain as she can, as honest as she can, she has admitted her mistakes, and maybe Tyson was the catalyst that brought her back here a little sooner. But she also knows in her own heart that she couldn't have shut him out of her life for much longer – the pain in her chest every minute of the day was too great for that, her longing to be near him far too strong.

"What do I say?" repeats Castle, clearing his throat and then shaking his head to clear that too, as he stands from his seated position on the edge of the desk.

"Yes," says Kate, boldly reaching for his hand. "Your daughter's waiting outside with our bags. Just say the word and our future starts tonight with a plane ride down to D.C." she tells him, leading him back out towards the bar.

Castle is sorely tempted. Her hand, so warmly wrapped around his, feels like her love wrapping around his heart again.

"But how is this even going to work?" he asks, just as they exit the office to be met by a loud clamor of cheering, the noise drowning out his question in the process.

* * *

Kate sees Rachel and Kelly approaching. Kelly's fingers are held to her lips as she whistles loudly. Ryan and Esposito are clapping and laughing.

"You still owe me a drink, _partner,_" calls out Rachel, just as Esposito taps his badge against the neck of his beer bottle to get people's attention.

"A little hush everyone, please."

The crowd whistles and jeers a little longer, trying to drown him out, and the regular patrons turn to watch this impromptu speech with baffled amusement, before most people fall silent to listen to what Esposito has to say.

"Tonight our sister, and one amazing detective, leaves for D.C.," announces Esposito, to a loud, comical chorus of _awing_ and _booing_, which then has several people dissolving into giggles. "We send her on her way after a job well done. Since you sneaked off without a goodbye last time, I'm going for maximum embarrassment quotient tonight, chica!" Esposito tell her, giving her a wink, and Kate tightens her fingers around Castle's hand in reassurance, since she knows that he too will be thinking about her wordless departure three months ago.

"But, she won't be gone for long. Oh, no," he says, reveling in the limelight, as people start to hoot and holler again. "Because we won in the end. Yes, folks, she finally saw the light. So here's to one of the finest damn detectives the Twelfth Precinct and this city has ever seen. Raise your glasses to the former _and_ the _future_, Detective Kate Beckett!" he declares, and their little gang goes wild - cheering, clapping, tapping their glasses, happy smiles all round.

Except for one overwhelmed Richard Castle, who stands docilely by Kate's side trying to take everything in.

"Thank you, Javier," replies Kate, once the noise dies down a little. "I will get you back for that, don't think I won't," she tells him, smiling, her hand still firmly wrapped around Castle's. "I'm going to be taking a little time out. But I will be back in the Fall to partner up with this amazing lady," says Kate, raising her glass to Rachel McCord. "And now, I'm afraid…" she turns to look at Castle, expectantly, giving his hand a quick questioning tug. When he gives her a slight nod in return, her heart floods with utter relief. "Now, I'm afraid that _we_ have a plane to catch, guys. So take care, and we'll see you all in a few weeks time."

* * *

Castle remains uncharacteristically quiet all the way out to the airport. Alexis and Kate exchange worried glances up front, while Castle rides in the back, staring out of the window the entire journey.

They say their goodbyes curbside. Alexis gives each of them a tight hug of farewell. Kate quietly promises to call her and tell her when they'll be coming home.

They're in the line for security when Castle finally speaks up.

"You kind of ambushed me tonight, Kate, and only because it's _you_, and you don't do stuff—"

"_Stuff?_" she asks, lifting one amused eyebrow at his inarticulate choice of words.

"Because you don't do _anything_ without a plan," he corrects, "I'm coming along for the ride."

"_Just_ for the ride? I see," she smirks, quirking her eyebrow a second time, only with more than a hint of suggestion in her voice.

"What I mean is, I have no idea what's going on here, why we're going to D.C., what _Javi_ was talking about…you packed my _bag_?" he says, in disbelief. "I have no idea about any of it. All I know is that you've been working so hard since you came back, trying to prove yourself to me. I get that. I can see that. Don't think I didn't notice. But…what the hell is going on, Kate?" he blurts, his face finally breaking into a crazed, relieved smile.

"We're going to Washington so I can formally resign from my job and pack up my apartment, Castle. I'm sorry, I thought you understood that."

"And _then_?" asks Castle, shaking his head to indicate that no he didn't get that at all.

"And then I thought we could take a short vacation, maybe checkout the Fall colors. Virginia is supposed to be very pretty this time of year."

_'Virginia is for lovers'_, so goes the tourist board slogan – though she thinks it's maybe a little too soon to remind him of that.

"Fall colors?" he repeats, as if she's just said something like: 'alien abduction', moving obediently up the line with her towards the X-Ray machine.

Kate is still wearing the clingy, midnight blue dress that she wore to the party, her hair is twisted into an elegant chignon and her heels…well, he can't figure out how on earth she can walk in those things, but he simply loves what they do to her ass.

Several TSA agents obviously appreciate her assets too from the obnoxious way they gawp and stare as she pads through the metal arch in her bare feet. Castle finds himself sticking close behind her, his body already spinning back into her orbit as if he has absolutely no say in the matter.

* * *

They're on the airplane before she gets a chance to tell him everything – that she's resigning from her Federal role, having left without permission to come and find him anyway, and that Captain Gates has offered her a detective position back at the Twelfth once the new budgets come through in the Fall.

They're still in the climb, around twenty thousand feet above a pitch-black and twinkly New York State, when he quietly reaches across the armrest in the darkened cabin to take her hand.

She thinks they may have reached cruising altitude by the time his lips finally meet hers. She barely suppresses a moan and a whimper when she opens her mouth for him and his tongue strokes hers. His hands come up to gently cradle her face, and she strains against the pull of her seatbelt to wrap her arms around his neck.

And after all they've been through over the last few months, _this_ – finally being here alone with him, kissing him, loving him, and being granted another shot at a future with him - finally feels like _coming home_.

* * *

_A/N: And so, as with all good things, there has to be an end. I'm heading to New York myself in a couple of days, and this seems like a fitting place to end (especially since I still have to pack my suitcase)._

_I have had the best and the toughest time writing this story, and I want to thank everyone who left a review, everyone who cheered and encouraged along the way, and those people who helped with information (fbobs), chats about storyline (CB), and generally held my hand (girls you know who you are). I know not everyone likes angst, so thank you for having enough faith in me to see this through to the end when the going got dark and tough._

_Writing for this fandom has been a pleasure and an honor. We now only have one week left before we get Caskett back for real! We made it through the hiatus, and I hope this going to be a great season for all Castle fans. Love to hear your thoughts on the ending, if you can spare a minute. _

_My best wishes to all of you. Thank you for reading, Liv xx_


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